POEMS  OF 
AMERICAN  PATRIOTISM 


(  0pyi  ighl  by  i  harl     Si  ribni  r's  Suns 


The  old  Continentals 


poem£  AMERICAN 
OF  ^PATRIOTISM 


CHOSEN  BY 

BRANDED 
MATTHEWS 

AN  EDITION  REVISED 
AND  EXTENDED 

ILLUSTRATED  BY 

N.CWYETH 


c  C.  S.  S. 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES     SCHIBNER'S 

1922 


SONS 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  October,  1922 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

THEODORE    ROOSEVELT 


Who  now  shall  sneer? 

Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace 

Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race? 
Roundhead  and  Cavalier! 
Dumb  are  those  names,  erewhile  in  battle  loud; 
Dream-footed,  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear ; 
That  is  best  blood  that  hath  most  iron  in  't 
To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without  stint 

For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 

Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs,  and  Guelphs,  whose  thin  bloods  crawl 
Down  from  some  victor  in  a  border  brawl! 

Haw  poor  their  outworn  coronets, 
Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic  wreath 
Our  brave  for  honor's  blazon  shall  bequeath, 

Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation  sets 
Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet  hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen  ears 

With  vain  resentments  and  more  vain  regrets! 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


PREFATORY   NOTE 

An  attempt  has  been  made  in  the  present  collection  to  gather 
together  the  patriotic  poems  of  America,  those  which  depict 
feelings  as  well  as  those  which  describe  actions,  since  these 
latter  are  as  indicative  of  the  temper  of  the  time.  It  is  a  col- 
lection, for  the  most  part,  of  old  favorites,  for  Americans  have 
been  quick  to  take  to  heart  a  stirring  telling  of  a  daring  and 
noble  deed;  but  these  may  be  found  to  have  gained  freshness 
by  a  grouping  in  order.  The  arrangement  is  chronological  so 
far  as  it  might  be,  that  the  history  of  America  as  told  by  her 
poets  should  be  set  forth.  Here  and  there  occur  breaks  in  the 
story,  chiefly  because  there  are  fit  incidents  for  song  which  no 
poet  has  fitly  sung  as  yet. 

The  poems  have  been  printed  scrupulously  from  the  best 
accessible  text,  and  they  have  not  been  tinkered  in  any  way, 
though  some  few  have  been  curtailed  slightly  for  the  sake  of 
space.  In  a  few  cases,  where  the  whole  poem  has  not  fallen 
within  the  scope  of  this  volume,  only  a  fragment  is  here  given. 
When  this  has  been  done,  it  is  pointed  out.  Brief  notes  have 
been  prefixed  to  many  of  the  poems,  making  plain  the  occasion 
of  their  origin,  and  removing  any  chance  obscurity  of  allusion. 

New  York,  November,  1882. 

In  the  two  score  years  since  this  collection  was  prepared 
many  things  have  happened,  and  many  poets  have  been  in- 

[ix] 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

spired  to  celebrate  men  and  moods  and  deeds.     It  has  been 

found  necessary  to  omit  a  few  of  the  less  important  verses  in 

the  earlier  edition  to  make  room  for  the  most  significant  of  the 

lyric   commemorations   of   events   almost   contemporary,    and 

therefore  appealing  to  us  more  immediately,  and  perhaps  more 

poignantly. 

B.  M. 

July  4, 1922. 


[x] 


[For  permission  to  include  their  poems  in  this  new  edition  the  editor  is 
indebted  to  Robert  Bridges,  Grace  Ellery  Channing,  James  Weldon  John- 
son, Joseph  C.  Lincoln,  Rudyard  Kipling,  Angela  Morgan,  Waldron  Kin- 
solving  Post,  Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson,  Henry  van  Dyke,  and  Edith  Whar- 
ton. The  poems  of  H.  C.  Bunner  and  Alan  Seeger  are  included  by  permission 
of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  those  by  Guy  Wetmore  Carryl  by  permission  of 
George  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  that  by  Richard  Watson  Gilder  by  permission  of 
the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  and  that  by  Henry  Newbolt  by  permission 
of  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company.] 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Boston Ralph  Waldo  Emerson   . 

Paul  Revere's  Ride       ....  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

The  Battle  of  Lexington       .      .  Sidney  Lanier 

Hymn Ralph  Waldo  Emerson    . 

Ticonderoga V.  B.  Wilson 


Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker 

Hill  Battle Oliver  Wendell  Holmes   . 

Warren's  Address John  Pierpont 

The  Old  Continentals  ....  Guy  Humphrey  McMaster 

Nathan  Hale Francis  Miles  Finch 

The  Little  Black-eyed  Rebel  Will  Carleton  .... 

Molly  Maguire  at  Monmouth 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 


William  Collins  . 
William  Cullen  Bryant 


To  the  Memory  of  the  Americans 
Who  Fell  at  Eutaw    . 


Philip  Freneau 
James  Russell  Lowell 
James  Gates  Percival 
Francis  Scott  Key 
Thomas  Dunn  English   . 


George  Washington 
Perry's  Victory  on  Lake  Erie 
The  Star  Spangled  Banner    . 
The  Battle  of  New  Orleans 

The  American  Flag Joseph  Rodman  Drake 

Old  Ironsides Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

Monterey Charles  Fenno  Hoffman 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead      .      .     Theodore  O'Hara  .     . 


How  Old  Brown  Took  Harper's 

Ferry Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

[  xiii  ] 


3 

9 

15 

18 

19 

22 


37 
40 
43 

47 

50 
52 
53 
56 
58 
67 
70 
72 
74 

78 


CONTENTS 


Apocalypse Richard  Realf 

The  Picket  Guard Ethel  Lynn  Beers 

The  Washers  of  the  Shroud  .  James  Russell  Lowell 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic  Julia  Ward  Howe     . 

At  Port  Royal John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

Ready Phoebe  Cary    . 

"How  Are  You,  Sanitary?"   .      .  Bret  Harte    . 

Song  of  the  Soldiers    ....  Charles  G.  Halpine  . 

Jonathan  to  John James  Russell  Lowell 

The  Cumberland Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

Kearny  at  Seven  Pines      .      .      .  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier      ....  George  H.  Boker  . 

Barbara  Frietchie John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

Fredericksburg Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  . 

Music  in  Camp John  R.  Thompson  . 

Keenan's  Charge George  Parsons  Lathrop 

The  Black  Regiment     ....  George  H.  Boker  . 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg     .      .  Bret  Harte      .... 

Twilight  on  Sumter      ....  Richard  Henry  Stoddard 

The  Bay-Fight Henry  Howard  Brownell 

Sheridan's  Ride Thomas  Buchanan  Read 

Craven Henry  Newbolt 

Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea      .  Samuel  H.  M.  Byers 

O  Captain!  My  Captain!   .      .      .  Walt  Whitman     . 

Abraham  Lincoln James  Russell  Lowell 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray    .      .      .  Francis  Miles  Finch 

At  the  Farragut  Statue    .     .      .  Robert  Bridges 

I  xiv  ] 


CONTENTS 


Grant    

The  Burial  of  Sherman     . 

The  Men  Behind  the  Guns    . 

The  Regular  Army  Man   . 

When    the    Great    Gray    Ships 
Come  In 

Ad  Finem  Fideles 

Grover  Cleveland   

A  Toast  to  Our  Native  Land 

Fifty  Years 

The  American  Volunteers      .     . 

I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death 

The  Choice 

Annapolis 

Yanks    

Any  Woman  to  a  Soldier  . 

To  Peace,  with  Victory 

You  and  You 

With  the  Tide 

America's  Welcome  Home  . 

The  Unknown  Soldier  . 


H.  C.  Bunner 
Richard  Watson  Gilder   . 
John  Jerome  Rooney 
Joseph  C.  Lincoln 

Guy  Wetmore  Carryl 
Guy  Wetmore  Carryl 
Joel  Benton    .... 
Robert  Bridges 
James  Weldon  Johnson 
Marie  Van  Vorst 
Alan  Seeger    .... 
Rudyard  Kipling 
Waldron  Kinsolving  Post 
James  W.  Foley  . 
Grace  Ellery  Channing   . 
Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 
Edith  Wharton     . 
Edith  Wharton     . 
Henry  van  Dyke  . 
Angela  Morgan    . 


179 
182 
184 
186 

189 

192 

194 

195 

196 

200 

201 

203 

205 

207 

209 

211 

212 

216 

219 

221 


[    XV   ] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Old  Continentals Frontispiece 

That  is  best  blood  that  hath  most  iron  in't 
To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without  stint 
For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 

FACING 
PAGE 

Paul  Revere 12 

And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 
The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night. 

Warren's  Address 32 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust! 
Die  we  may, — and  die  we  must. 

Nathan  Hale 38 

By  starlight  and  moonlight, 
He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp. 

Washington 52 

Dumb  for  himself,  unless  it  were  to  God, 
But  for  his  barefoot  soldiers  eloquent. 

The  Picket  Guard 90 

His  musket  falls  slack — his  face,  dark  and  grim, 
Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep — 
For  their  mother — may  Heaven  defend  her! 

Barbara  Frietchie 124 

"Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

[  xvii  ] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg 140 

And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 
That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 
Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 
That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

O  Captain!  My  Captain! 170 

O  Captain !     My  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 

The  ship  has  weather 'd  every  rock,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won. 

Grant 180 

But  lo,  the  man  was  here,  and  this  was  he, 
And  at  his  hands  Faith  gave  us  victory. 

Sherman 182 

Who  fought  for  freedom,  not  glory;  made  war  that  war  might  cease. 

The  Regular  Army  Man 186 

He  ain't  no  Mama's  darling,  but 
He  does  the  best  he  can, 
And  he's  the  chap  that  wins  the  scrap, 
The  Regular  Army  Man. 

Our  Mother 206 

And  great  gray  ships  go  down  the  tide 
And  carry  her  sons  away. 

The  Unknown  Soldier 222 

He  is  hailed  by  the  time-crowned  brotherhood. 


[  xviii  ] 


POEMS  OF 
AMERICAN  PATRIOTISM 


BOSTON 

SICUT   PATRIBUS,   SIT   DEUS   NOBIS 
RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Dec.  16,  This  poem  was  read  in  Faneuil  Hall,  on  the  Centennial  Anni- 

1773  versary  of  the  "Boston  Tea-Party"  at  which  a  band  of 

men  disguised  as  Indians  had  quietly  emptied  into  the  sea 
the  taxed  tea-chests  of  three  British  ships. 

THE  rocky  nook  with  hill-tops  three 
Looked  eastward  from  the  farms, 
And  twice  each  day  the  flowing  sea 
Took  Boston  in  its  arms; 

The  men  of  yore  were  stout  and  poor, 
And  sailed  for  bread  to  every  shore. 

And  where  they  went  on  trade  intent 

They  did  what  freemen  can, 
Their  dauntless  ways  did  all  men  praise, 
The  merchant  was  a  man. 
The  world  was  made  for  honest  trade, — 
To  plant  and  eat  be  none  afraid. 

The  waves  that  rocked  them  on  the  deep 

To  them  their  secret  told; 
Said  the  winds  that  sung  the  lads  to  sleep, 

[3] 


BOSTON 

"Like  us  be  free  and  bold!" 

The  honest  waves  refuse  to  slaves 
The  empire  of  the  ocean  caves. 

Old  Europe  groans  with  palaces, 
Has  lords  enough  and  more; — 
We  plant  and  build  by  foaming  seas 
A  city  of  the  poor; — 

For  day  by  day  could  Boston  Bay 
Their  honest  labor  overpay. 

We  grant  no  dukedoms  to  the  few, 
We  hold  like  rights  and  shall; — 
Equal  on  Sunday  in  the  pew, 
On  Monday  in  the  mall. 

For  what  avail  the  plough  or  sail, 
Or  land  or  life,  if  freedom  fail? 

The  noble  craftsmen  we  promote, 

Disown  the  knave  and  fool; 
Each  honest  man  shall  have  his  vote, 
Each  child  shall  have  his  school. 
A  union  then  of  honest  men, 
Or  union  nevermore  again. 

The  wild  rose  and  the  barberry  thorn 
Hung  out  their  summer  pride 

Where  now  on  heated  pavements  worn 
The  feet  of  millions  stride. 

[4] 


BOSTON 

Fair  rose  the  planted  hills  behind 

The  good  town  on  the  bay, 
And  where  the  western  hills  declined 

The  prairie  stretched  away. 

What  care  though  rival  cities  soar 

Along  the  stormy  coast: 
Penn's  town,  New  York,  and  Baltimore, 

If  Boston  knew  the  most! 

They  laughed  to  know  the  world  so  wide; 

The  mountains  said:  "Good-day! 
We  greet  you  well,  you  Saxon  men, 
Up  with  your  towns  and  stay!" 

The  world  was  made  for  honest  trade, — 
To  plant  and  eat  be  none  afraid. 

"For  you,"  they  said,  "no  barriers  be, 

For  you  no  sluggard  rest; 
Each  street  leads  downward  to  the  sea, 

Or  landward  to  the  West." 

O  happy  town  beside  the  sea, 

Whose  roads  lead  everywhere  to  all; 

Than  thine  no  deeper  moat  can  be, 
No  stouter  fence,  no  steeper  wall! 

Bad  news  from  George  on  the  English  throne: 
"You  are  thriving  well,"  said  he; 
[5  ] 


BOSTON 

"Now  by  these  presents  be  it  known, 
You  shall  pay  us  a  tax  on  tea; 
'T  is  very  small, — no  load  at  all, — 
Honor  enough  that  we  send  the  call/ 

"Not  so,"  said  Boston,  "good  my  lord, 

We  pay  your  governors  here 
Abundant  for  their  bed  and  board, 

Six  thousand  pounds  a  year. 
(Your  highness  knows  our  homely  word,) 
Millions  for  self-government, 
But  for  tribute  never  a  cent." 

The  cargo  came!  and  who  could  blame 

If  Indians  seized  the  tea, 
And,  chest  by  chest,  let  down  the  same 
Into  the  laughing  sea? 

For  what  avail  the  plough  or  sail 
Or  land  or  life,  if  freedom  fail? 

The  townsmen  braved  the  English  king, 
Found  friendship  in  the  French, 

And  Honor  joined  the  patriot  ring 
Low  on  their  wooden  bench. 

O  bounteous  seas  that  never  fail! 

O  day  remembered  yet ! 
O  happy  port  that  spied  the  sail 

Which  wafted  Lafayette! 
[6] 


BOSTON 

Pole-star  of  light  in  Europe's  night, 
That  never  faltered  from  the  right. 

Kings  shook  with  fear,  old  empires  crave 

The  secret  force  to  find 
Which  fired  the  little  State  to  save 

The  rights  of  all  mankind. 

But  right  is  might  through  all  the  world; 

Province  to  province  faithful  clung, 
Through  good  and  ill  the  war-bolt  hurled, 

Till  Freedom  cheered  and  the  joy-bells  rung. 

The  sea  returning  day  by  day 

Restores  the  world-wide  mart; 
So  let  each  dweller  on  the  Bay 
Fold  Boston  in  his  heart, 

Till  these  echoes  be  choked  with  snows, 
Or  over  the  town  blue  ocean  flows. 

Let  the  blood  of  her  hundred  thousands 

Throb  in  each  manly  vein; 
And  the  wit  of  all  her  wisest 
Make  sunshine  in  her  brain. 

For  you  can  teach  the  lightning  speech, 
And  round  the  globe  your  voices  reach. 

And  each  shall  care  for  other, 
And  each  to  each  shall  bend, 
[7] 


BOSTON 

To  the  poor  a  noble  brother, 
To  the  good  an  equal  friend. 

A  blessing  through  the  ages  thus 
Shield  all  thy  roofs  and  towers! 

God  unih  the  fathers,  so  with  us, 
Thou  darling  town  of  ours! 


I*) 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

April  18,  This  poem  is  the  "Landlord's  Tale,"  the  first  of  the  "Tales 

I775  of  a  Wayside  Inn." 

IISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
.  Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
— ^  On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five: 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal-light, 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said,  Good-night !  and  with  muffled  oar 
Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 

[9] 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison-bar, 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 

On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 

By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 

To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 

Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 

A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 

[  10] 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "All  is  well!" 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 

A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 


Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely,  and  spectral,  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns ! 

[  in 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet: 

That  was  all !  And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides; 
And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 
When  he  rode  into  Lexington. 
He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 
And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 
Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

[  12] 


Copyright  by  Charles  Scrib 


Paul  Revere 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you  have  read, 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere; 
And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 
To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 
A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore! 

[  13] 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 


[14] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LEXINGTON 

SIDNEY  LANIER 

April  19,  The  skirmish  at  Lexington  and    the  fight   at  Concord  closed 

yjmfr  all  political  bickering  between  Great  Britain  and  her  colonies 

and  began  the  War  of  the  Revolution.    The  following  verses 
are  a  fragment  of  the  "Psalm  of  the  West." 

THEN  haste  ye,  Prescott  and  Revere! 
Bring  all  the  men  of  Lincoln  here; 
Let  Chelmsford,  Littleton,  Carlisle, 
Let  Acton,  Bedford,  hither  file — 
Oh,  hither  file,  and  plainly  see 
Out  of  a  wound  leap  Liberty. 

Say,  Woodman  April!  all  in  green, 
Say,  Robin  April!  hast  thou  seen 
In  all  thy  travel  round  the  earth 
Ever  a  morn  of  calmer  birth? 
But  Morning's  eye  alone  serene 
Can  gaze  across  yon  village-green 
To  where  the  trooping  British  run 

Through  Lexington. 
Good  men  in  fustian,  stand  ye  still; 
The  men  in  red  come  o'er  the  hill, 
Lay  down  your  arms,  damned  rebels!  cry 
The  men  in  red  full  haughtily. 
But  never  a  grounding  gun  is  heard; 
[  15] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LEXINGTON 

The  men  in  fustian  stand  unstirred; 

Dead  calm,  save  maybe  a  wise  bluebird 

Puts  in  his  little  heavenly  word. 

O  men  in  red !  if  ye  but  knew 

The  half  as  much  as  bluebirds  do, 

Now  in  this  little  tender  calm 

Each  hand  would  out,  and  every  palm 

With  patriot  palm  strike  brotherhood's  stroke 

Or  ere  these  lines  of  battle  broke. 

O  men  in  red !  if  ye  but  knew 
The  least  of  all  that  bluebirds  do, 
Now  in  this  little  godly  calm 
Yon  voice  might  sing  the  Future's  Psalm — 
The  Psalm  of  Love  with  the  brotherly  eyes 
Who  pardons  and  is  very  wise — 
Yon  voice  that  shouts,  high-hoarse  with  ire, 
Fire ! 

The  red-coats  fire,  the  homespuns  fall: 
The  homespuns'  anxious  voices  call, 
Brother,  art  hurt?  and  Where  hit,  John? 
And,  Wipe  this  bloody  and  Men,  come  on, 
And  Neighbor,  do  but  lift  my  head, 
And  Who  is  wounded?     Who  is  dead? 
Seven  are  killed.     My  God!  my  God! 
Seven  lie  dead  on  the  village  sod. 
Two  Harringtons,  Parker,  Hadley,  Brown, 
Monroe  and  Porter, — these  are  down. 

I  16] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LEXINGTON 

Nay,  look !  stout  Harrington  not  yet  dead. 

He  crooks  his  elbow,  lifts  his  head. 

He  lies  at  the  step  of  his  own  house-door; 

He  crawls  and  makes  a  path  of  gore. 

The  wife  from  the  window  hath  seen,  and  rushed; 

He  hath  reached  the  step,  but  the  blood  hath  gushed; 

He  hath  crawled  to  the  step  of  his  own  house-door, 

But  his  head  hath  dropped:  he  will  crawl  no  more. 

Clasp  Wife,  and  kiss,  and  lift  the  head, 

Harrington  lies  at  his  doorstep  dead. 

But,  O  ye  Six  that  round  him  lay 

And  bloodied  up  that  April  day ! 

As  Harrington  fell,  ye  likewise  fell — 

At  the  door  of  the  House  wherein  ye  dwell; 

As  Harrington  came,  ye  likewise  came 

And  died  at  the  door  of  your  House  of  Fame. 


[  17] 


HYMN 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

April  19,  This  poem  was  written  to  be  sung  at   the   completion  of  the 

1775  Concord  Monument,  April  19,  1836 

BY  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

To  die,  or  leave  their  children  free, 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


[18] 


TICONDEROGA 

V.  B.  WILSON 

May  XO,  After  the  news  of  Concord  fight,  a  volunteer  expedition  from 

1775  Vermont  and  Connecticut,  under  Ethan  Allen  and  Benedict 

Arnold,  seized  Ticonderoga  and  Crown  Point,  whose  military 

stores  were  of  great  service.     From  its  chime  of  bells,  the 

French  called  Ticonderoga  "Carillon.'" 

THE  cold,  gray  light  of  the  dawning 
On  old  Carillon  falls, 
And  dim  in  the  mist  of  the  morning 
Stand  the  grim  old  fortress  walls. 
No  sound  disturbs  the  stillness 

Save  the  cataract's  mellow  roar, 
Silent  as  death  is  the  fortress, 
Silent  the  misty  shore. 

But  up  from  the  wakening  waters 

Comes  the  cool,  fresh  morning  breeze, 
Lifting  the  banner  of  Britain, 

And  whispering  to  the  trees 
Of  the  swift  gliding  boats  on  the  waters 

That  are  nearing  the  fog-shrouded  land, 
With  the  old  Green  Mountain  Lion, 

And  his  daring  patriot  band. 
[  19] 


TICONDEROGA 

But  the  sentinel  at  the  postern 

Heard  not  the  whisper  low; 
He  is  dreaming  of  the  banks  of  the  Shannon 

A9  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 
Of  the  starry  eyes  in  Green  Erin 

That  were  dim  when  he  marched  away, 
And  a  tear  down  his  bronzed  cheek  courses, 

*T  is  the  first  for  many  a  day. 

A  sound  breaks  the  misty  stillness, 

And  quickly  he  glances  around; 
Through  the  mist,  forms  like  towering  giants 

Seem  rising  out  of  the  ground; 
A  challenge,  the  firelock  flashes, 

A  sword  cleaves  the  quivering  air, 
And  the  sentry  lies  dead  by  the  postern, 

Blood  staining  his  bright  yellow  hair. 

Then,  with  a  shout  that  awakens 

All  the  echoes  of  hillside  and  glen, 
Through  the  low,  frowning  gate  of  the  fortress, 

Sword  in  hand,  rush  the  Green  Mountain  men. 
The  scarce  wakened  troops  of  the  garrison 

Yield  up  their  trust  pale  with  fear; 
And  down  comes  the  bright  British  banner, 

And  out  rings  a  Green  Mountain  cheer. 

Flushed  with  pride,  the  whole  eastern  heavens 
With  crimson  and  gold  are  ablaze; 
[  20  ] 


TICONDEROGA 

And  up  springs  the  sun  in  his  splendor 
And  flings  down  his  arrowy  rays, 

Bathing  in  sunlight  the  fortress, 
Turning  to  gold  the  grim  walls, 

While  louder  and  clearer  and  higher 
Rings  the  song  of  the  waterfalls. 

Since  the  taking  of  Ticonderoga 

A  century  has  rolled  away; 
Rut  with  pride  the  nation  remembers 

That  glorious  morning  in  May. 
And  the  cataract's  silvery  music 

Forever  the  story  tells, 
Of  the  capture  of  old  Carillon, 

The  chime  of  the  silver  bells. 


[21  ] 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER 
HILL  BATTLE 

June  17,  AS  SHE  SAW  IT  FROM  THE  BELFRY 

1775 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

TIS  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at  eighty,  one  re- 
members 
All  the  achings  and  the  quakings  of  "the  times  that 
tried  men's  souls"; 
When  I  talk  of  Whig  and  Tory,  when  I  tell  the  Rebel  story, 
To  you  the  words  are  ashes,  but  to  me  they're  burning  coals. 

I  had  heard  the  muskets'  rattle  of  the  April  running  battle; 
Lord  Percy's  hunted  soldiers,  I  can  see  their  red  coats  still; 
But  a  deadly  chill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the  day  looms  up  before 

me, 
When  a  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on  the  slopes  of  Bunker's 

Hill. 

'Twas  a  peaceful  summer's  morning,  when  the  first  thing  gave 

us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the  river  and  the  shore: 
"Child,"  says  grandma,  "what's  the  matter,  what  is  all  this 

noise  and  clatter? 
Have  those  scalping  Indian  devils  come  to  murder  us  once 

more  ?  " 

[  22  ] 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 

Poor  old  soul !  my  sides  were  shaking  in  the  midst  of  all  my 

quaking 
To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns  began  to  roar: 
She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and  the  slaughter  and  the 

pillage, 
When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father,  with  their  bullets  through 

his  door. 

Then  I  said,  "Now,  dear  old  granny,  don't  you  fret  and  worry 

any, 
For  I'll  soon  come  back  and  tell  you  whether  this  is  work  or 

play; 
There  can't  be  mischief  in  it,  so  I  won't  be  gone  a  minute" — 
For  a  minute  then  I  started.    I  was  gone  the  livelong  day. 

No  time  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking-glass  grimacing; 
Down  my  hair  went  as  I  hurried,  tumbling  half-way  to  my 

heels; 
God  forbid  your  ever  knowing,  when  there's  blood  around  her 

flowing, 
How  the  lonely,  helpless  daughter  of  a  quiet  household  feels! 

In  the  street  I  heard  a  thumping;  and  I  knew  it  was  the 
stumping 

Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  that  wooden  leg  he  wore, 

With  a  knot  of  women  round  him, — it  was  lucky  I  had  found 
him, — 

So  I  followed  with  the  others,  and  the  Corporal  marched  be- 
fore. 

[23  ] 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 

They  were  making  for  the  steeple, — the  old  soldier  and  his 

people; 
The  pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we  climbed  the  creaking  stair, 
Just  across  the  narrow  river — O,  so  close  it  made  me  shiver ! — 
Stood  a  fortress  on  the  hilltop  that  but  yesterday  was  bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it;  well  we  knew  who  stood  be- 
hind it, 

Though  the  earthwork  hid  them  from  us,  and  the  stubborn 
walls  were  dumb: 

Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  looking  wild  upon  each 
other, 

And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as  they  said,  The  hour 
has  come! 

The  morning  slowly  wasted,  not  a  morsel  had  we  tasted, 

And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting  with  the  cannons'  deafen- 
ing thrill, 

When  a  figure  tall  and  stately  round  the  rampart  strode  se- 
dately; 

It  was  Prescott,  one  since  told  me;  he  commanded  on  the  hill. 

Every  woman's  heart  grew  bigger  when  we  saw  his  manly 

figure, 
With  the  banyan  buckled  round  it,  standing  up  so  straight 

and  tall; 
Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure  who  is  strolling  out  for  pleasure, 
Through  the  storm  of  shells  and  cannon-shot  he  walked  around 

the  wall. 

[24] 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for  the  red-coats'  ranks 

were  forming; 
At  noon  in  marching  order  they  were  moving  to  the  piers; 
How  the  bayonets  gleamed  and  glistened,  as  we  looked  far 

down  and  listened 
To  the  trampling  and  the  drum-beat  of  the  belted  grenadiers ! 

At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a  cheer  (it  seemed  faint- 
hearted), 

In  their  scarlet  regimentals,  with  their  knapsacks  on  their 
backs, 

And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after  a  sea-fight's 
slaughter, 

Round  the  barges  gliding  onward  blushed  like  blood  along 
their  tracks. 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and  again  they  formed  in 
order; 

And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers,  came  for  soldiers,  sol- 
diers still: 

The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  women  faint  and  fasting, — 

At  last  they're  moving,  marching,  marching  proudly  up  the  hill. 

We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all  along  the  lines  ad- 
vancing— 

Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley — they  have  thrown  away 
their  shot; 

For  behind  the  earthwork  lying,  all  the  balls  above  them  flying, 

Our  people  need  not  hurry;  so  they  wait  and  answer  not. 

[25] 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple  (he  would  swear  sometimes 
and  tipple), — 

He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the  old  French  war)  be- 
fore,— 

Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they  all  were  hearing, — 

And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the  dusty  belfry  floor: — 

"Oh!  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn  King  George's  shillin's, 

But  ye'll  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore  a  *  rebel'  falls; 

You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome,  they're  as  safe  as  Dan'l 

Malcolm 
Ten  foot  beneath  the  gravestone  that  you've  splintered  with 

your  balls!" 

In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and  trepidation 

Of  the  dread  approaching  moment,  we  are  well-nigh  breathless 
all; 

Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the  rickety  belfry  rail- 
ing, 

We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the  waves  against  a 
wall. 

Just  a  glirupse  (the  air  is  clearer),  they  are  nearer, — nearer, — 

nearer, 
When   a   flash — a   curling   smoke-wreath — then   a   crash — the 

steeple  shakes — 
The  deadly  truce  is  ended;  the  tempest's  shroud  is  rended; 
Like  a  morning  mist  it  gathered,  like  a  thunder-cloud  it  breaks  ! 

[  26  ] 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 

O  the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the  blue-black  smoke  blows 

over! 
The  red-coats  stretched  in  windrows  as  a  mower  rakes  his  hay; 
Here  a  scarlet  heap  is  lying,  there  a  headlong  crowd  is  flying 
Like  a  billow  that  has  broken  and  is  shivered  into  spray. 

Then  we  cried,  "The  troops  are  routed !  they  are  beat — it  can't 

be  doubted ! 
God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over !" — Ah !  the  grim  old  soldier's 

smile ! 
"Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so?"  (we  could  hardly  speak, 

we  shook  so), — 
"Are  they  beaten?    Are  they  beaten?    Are  they  beaten?" — 

"Wait  a  while." 

O  the  trembling  and  the  terror !  for  too  soon  we  saw  our  error: 
They  are  baffled,  not  defeated;  we  have  driven  them  back  in 

vain; 
And  the  columns  that  were  scattered,  round  the  colors  that 

were  tattered, 
Toward  the  sullen  silent  fortress  turn  their  belted  breasts  again. 

All  at  once,  as  we  are  gazing,  lo  the  roofs  of  Charlestown  blaz- 
ing! 

They  have  fired  the  harmless  village;  in  an  hour  it  will  be  down ! 

The  Lord  in  heaven  confound  them,  rain  his  fire  and  brimstone 
round  them, — 

The  robbing,  murdering  red-coats,  that  would  burn  a  peaceful 
town ! 

[  27  ] 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 

They  are  marching,  stern  and  solemn;  we  can  see  each  mas- 
sive column 

As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound  with  the  slanting  walls 
so  steep. 

Have  our  soldiers  got  faint-hearted,  and  in  noiseless  haste  de- 
parted ? 

Are  they  panic-struck  and  helpless?  Are  they  palsied  or 
asleep  ? 

Now !  the  walls  they're  almost  under !  scarce  a  rod  the  foes 

asunder ! 
Not  a  firelock  flashed  against  them !  up  the  earthwork  they 

will  swarm ! 
But  the  words  have  scarce  been  spoken,  when  the  ominous 

calm  is  broken, 
And  a  bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all  the  vengeance  of  the 

storm ! 

So  again,  with  murderous  slaughter,  pelted  backward  to  the 

water, 
Fly  Pigot's  running  heroes  and  the  frightened  braves  of  Howe; 
And  we  shout,  "At  last  they're  done  for,  it's  their  barges  they 

have  run  for: 
They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten;  and  the  battle's  over  now!" 

And  we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on  the  rough  old  soldier's 

features, 
Our  lips  afraid  to  question,  but  he  knew  what  we  would  ask: 

[  28  ] 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 

"Not  sure,"  he  said;  "keep  quiet, — once  more,  I  guess,  they'll 

try  it- 
Here's  damnation  to  the  cut-throats!" — then  he  handed  me 

his  flask, 

Saying,  "Gal,  you're  looking  shaky;  have  a  drop  of  old  Ja- 
maiky : 

I'm  afraid  there'll  be  more  trouble  afore  this  job  is  done;" 

So  I  took  one  scorching  swallow;  dreadful  faint  I  felt  and  hol- 
low, 

Standing  there  from  early  morning  when  the  firing  was  begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had  watched  a  calm  clock 

dial, 
As  the  hands  kept  creeping,   creeping, — they   were   creeping 

round  to  four, 
When  the  old  man  said,  "They're  forming  with  their  bayonets 

fixed  for  storming: 
It's  the  death  grip  that's  a  coming, — they  will  try  the  works 

once  more." 

With  brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames  behind  them  glaring, 
The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array  they  come; 
Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's  fold  uncoiling — 
Like  the  rattlesnake's  shrill  warning  the  reverberating  drum ! 

Over  heaps  all  fcbrn  and  gory — shall  I  tell  the  fearful  story, 

How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as  a  sea  breaks  over 

a  deck; 

[  29  ] 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 

How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn-out  men  retreated, 
With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like  the  swimmers  from 
a  wreck? 

It  has  all  been  told  and  painted;  as  for  me,  they  say  I  fainted, 
And  the  wooden-legged  old  Corporal  stumped  with  me  down 

the  stair: 
When  I  woke  from  dreams  affrighted  the  evening  lamps  were 

lighted, — 
On  the  floor  a  youth  was  lying;  his  bleeding  breast  was  bare. 

And  I  heard  through  all  the  flurry,  "Send  for  Warren  !  hurry ! 

hurry ! 
Tell  him  here's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and  he'll  come  and  dress  his 

wound!" 
Ah,  we  knew  not  till  the  morrow  told  its  tale  of  death  and 

sorrow, 
How  the  starlight  found  him  stiffened  on  the  dark  and  bloody 

ground. 

Who  the  youth  was,  what  his  name  was,  where  the  place  from 
which  he  came  was, 

Who  had  brought  him  from  the  battle,  and  had  left  him  at  our 
door, 

He  could  not  speak  to  tell  us;  but  'twas  one  of  our  brave  fel- 
lows, 

As  the  homespun  plainly  showed  us  which  the  dying  soldier 
wore. 

[30] 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 

For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as  they  gathered  'round 

him  crying, — 
And  they  said,  "O,  how  they'll  miss  him!"  and,  "What  will 

his  mother  do?" 
Then,  his  eyelids  just  unclosing  like  a  child's  that  has  been 

dozing, 
He  faintly  murmured,  "Mother !" and — I  saw  his  eyes  were 

blue. 

— "Why,  grandma,  how  you're  winking!" — Ah,  my  child,  it 

sets  me  thinking 
Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.     Well,  he  somehow  lived  along; 
So  we  came  to  know  each  other,  and  I  nursed  him  like  a — 

mother, 
Till  at  last  he  stood  before  me,  tall,  and  rosy-cheeked,  and 

strong. 

And  we  sometimes  walked  together  in  the  pleasant  summer 
weather; 

— "Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name  was?" — Just  your  own, 
my  little  dear, — 

There's  his  picture  Copley  painted:  we  became  so  well  ac- 
quainted, 

That — in  short,  that's  why  I'm  grandma,  and  you  children  all 
are  here ! 


[31  ] 


WARRENS  ADDRESS 

JOHN  PIERPONT 

June  17,  Joseph    Warren   was   commissioned   by   Massachusetts   as   a 

1775  Major-General  three  days  before  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill, 

at  which  he  fought  as  a  volunteer.  He  was  one  of  the  last 
to  leave  the  field,  and  as  a  British  officer  in  the  redoubt 
called  to  him  to  surrender,  a  ball  struck  him  in  the  forehead, 
killing  him  instantly. 

STAND  !  the  ground's  your  own,,  my  braves ! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves? 
Hope  ye  mercy  still? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel. 
Ask  it, — ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire? 
Look  behind  you  ! — they're  a-fire ! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it ! — From  the  vale 
On  they  come  ! — And  will  ye  quail  ? — 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be! 
[32  ] 


Copyright  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Warrens  address 


WARREN'S  ADDRESS 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust ! 

Die  we  may, — and  die  we  must; — 

But,  0,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  Heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell! 


[  33  ] 


THE  OLD  CONTINENTALS 

GUY  HUMPHREY  McMASTER 

1775-  The  nucleus  of  the  Continental  Army  was  the  New  England 

1788  force  gathered  before  Boston,  to  the  command  of  which 

Washington  had  been  appointed  two  days  before  the  battle 
of  Bunker  Hill,  although  he  arrived  too  late  to  take  part 
in  that  fight. 


I 


N  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  continentals, 
Yielding  not, 
When  the  grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon-shot; 
When  the  files 
Of  the  isles 
From  the  smoky  night  encampment,  bore  the  banner  of  the 

rampant 

Unicorn, 
And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer  rolled  the  roll  of  the  drum- 
mer, 

Through  the  morn ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 
Stood  our  sires; 
[34] 


THE  OLD  CONTINENTALS 

And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 
Blazed  the  fires; 
As  the  roar 
On  the  shore, 
Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers  o'er  the  green-sodded  acres 

Of  the  plain; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  cracked  the  black  gunpowder, 

Cracking  amain ! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  St.  George's 

Cannoneers; 
And  the  "villainous  saltpetre" 
Rung  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 

Round  their  ears; 

As  the  swift 

Storm-drift, 
With  hot  sweeping  anger,  came  the  horse-guards'  clangor 

On  our  flanks. 
Then  higher,  higher,  higher  burned  the  old-fashioned  fire 

Through  the  ranks! 

Then  the  old-fashioned  colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder-cloud; 
And  his  broad-sword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 

Trumpet  loud. 
[35] 


THE  OLD  CONTINENTALS 

Then  the  blue 

Bullets  flew, 
And  the  trooper-jackets  redden  at  the  touch  of  the  leaden 

Rifle-breath ; 
And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder  roared  the  iron  six  pounder, 

Hurling  death ! 


[36] 


NATHAN  HALE 

FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH 

Sept.  22,  After  the  retreat  from  Long  Island,  Washington  needed  informa- 

1776  tion  as  to  the  British  strength.     Captain  Nathan  Hale, 

a  young  man  of  twenty-one,  volunteered  to  get  this.     He 

was  taken,  inside  the  enemy's  lines,  and  hanged  as  a  spy, 

regretting  that  he  had  but  one  life  to  lose  for  his  country. 

TO  drum-beat  and  heart-beat, 
A  soldier  marches  by: 
There  is  color  in  his  cheek, 
There  is  courage  in  his  eye, 
Yet  to  drum-beat  and  heart-beat 
In  a  moment  he  must  die. 

By  starlight  and  moonlight, 

He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp; 
He  hears  the  rustling  flag, 

And  the  armed  sentry's  tramp; 
And  the  starlight  and  moonlight 

His  silent  wanderings  lamp. 

With  slow  tread  and  still  tread, 

He  scans  the  tented  line; 
And  he  counts  the  battery  guns 
[37  ] 


NATHAN  HALE 

By  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  pine; 
And  his  slow  tread  and  still  tread 
Gives  no  warning  sign. 

The  dark  wave,  the  plumed  wave, 

It  meets  his  eager  glance; 
And  it  sparkles  'neath  the  stars, 

Like  the  glimmer  of  a  lance — 
A  dark  wave,  a  plumed  wave, 

On  an  emerald  expanse. 

A  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

And  terror  in  the  sound ! 
For  the  sentry,  falcon-eyed, 

In  the  camp  a  spy  hath  found; 
With  a  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

The  patriot  is  bound. 

With  calm  brow,  steady  brow, 

He  listens  to  his  doom; 
In  his  look  there  is  no  fear, 

Nor  a  shadow-trace  of  gloom; 
But  with  calm  brow  and  steady  brow 

He  robes  him  for  the  tomb. 

In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  kneels  upon  the  sod; 
And  the  brutal  guards  withhold 
[38] 


Copyright  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Nathan  Hale 


NATHAN  HALE 

E'en  the  solemn  Word  of  God ! 
In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 
He  walks  where  Christ  hath  trod. 

'Neath  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

He  dies  upon  the  tree; 
And  he  mourns  that  he  can  lose 

But  one  life  for  Liberty; 
And  in  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

His  spirit-wings  are  free. 

But  his  last  words,  his  message-words, 
They  burn,  lest  friendly  eye 

Should  read  how  proud  and  calm 
A  patriot  could  die, 

With  his  last  words,  his  dying  words, 
A  soldier's  battle-cry. 

From  the  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf, 

From  monument  and  urn, 
The  sad  of  earth,  the  glad  of  heaven, 

His  tragic  fate  shall  learn; 
And  on  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf 

The  name  of  Hale  shall  burn. 


[39] 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK-EYED  REBEL 

WILL  CARLETON 

Between  The  heroine's  name  was  Mary  Redmond,  and  she  lived  in 

Sept.  26,  1777,  Philadelphia.    During  the  occupation  of  that   town   by 

ancj  the  British,  she  was  ever  ready  to  aid  in  the  secret  delivery 

Tune  17   1778  °f  ^e  ^ers  written  home  by  the  husbands  and  fathers 

fighting  in  the  Continental  Army. 

A  BOY  drove  into  the  city,  his  wagon  loaded  down 
With  food  to  feed  the  people  of  the  British-governed 
town; 
And  the  little  black-eyed  rebel,  so  innocent  and  sly, 
Was  watching  for  his  coming  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

His  face  looked  broad  and  honest,  his  hands  were  brown  and 

tough, 
The  clothes  he  wore  upon  him  were  homespun,  coarse,  and 

rough ; 
But  one  there  was  who  watched  him,  who  long  time  lingered 

nigh, 
And  cast  at  him  sweet  glances  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

He  drove  up  to  the  market,  he  waited  in  the  line; 
His  apples  and  potatoes  were  fresh  and  fair  and  fine; 
But  long  and  long  he  waited,  and  no  one  came  to  buy, 
Save  the  black-eyed  rebel,  watching  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

[  40] 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK-EYED  REBEL 

"Now  who  will  buy  my  apples?"  he  shouted,  long  and  loud; 
And  "Who  wants  my  potatoes?"  he  repeated  to  the  crowd; 
But  from  all  the  people  round  him  came  no  word  of  a  reply, 
Save  the  black-eyed  rebel,  answering  from  the  corner  of  her 
eye. 

For  she  knew  that  'neath  the  lining  of  the  coat  he  wore  that 

day, 
Were  long  letters  from  the  husbands  and  the  fathers  far  away, 
WTho  were  fighting  for  the  freedom  that  they  meant  to  gain 

or  die; 
And  a  tear  like  silver  glistened  in  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

But  the  treasures— how  to  get  them  ?  crept  the  question  through 

her  mind, 
Since  keen  enemies  were  watching  for  what  prizes  they  might 

find: 
And  she  paused  a  while  and  pondered,  with  a  pretty  little  sigh; 
Then  resolve  crept  through  her  features,  and  a  shrewdness  fired 

her  eye. 

So  she  resolutely  walked  up  to  the  wagon  old  and  red; 
"May  I  have  a  dozen  apples  for  a  kiss?"  she  sweetly  said: 
And  the  brown  face  flushed  to  scarlet;  for  the  boy  was  some- 
what shy, 
And  he  saw  her  laughing  at  him  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"You  may  have  them  all  for  nothing,  and  more,  if  you  want," 
quoth  he. 

[41  ] 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK-EYED  REBEL 

"I  will  have  them,  my  good  fellow,  but  can  pay  for  them," 

said  she; 
And  she  clambered  on  the  wagon,  minding  not  who  all  were 

by, 
With  a  laugh  of  reckless  romping  in  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

Clinging  round  his  brawny  neck,  she  clasped  her  fingers  white 
and  small, 

And  then  whispered,  "Quick!  the  letters!  thrust  them  under- 
neath my  shawl ! 

Carry  back  again  this  package,  and  be  sure  that  you  are  spry !" 

And  she  sweetly  smiled  upon  him  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

Loud  the  motley  crowd  were  laughing  at  the  strange,  ungirlish 

freak, 
And  the  boy  was  scared  and  panting,  and  so  dashed  he  could 

not  speak; 
And,  "Miss,  /  have  good  apples,"  a  bolder  lad  did  cry; 
But  she  answered,  "No,  I  thank  you,"  from  the  corner  of  her 

eye. 

With  the  news  of  loved  ones  absent  to  the  dear  friends  they 

would  greet, 
Searching  them  who  hungered  for  them,  swift  she  glided  through 

the  street. 
"There  is  nothing  worth  the  doing  that  it  does  not  pay  to  try," 
Thought  the  little  black-eyed  rebel,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye. 


[42] 


MOLLY  MAGUIRE  AT  MONMOUTH 

WILLIAM  COLLINS 

June  28,  The  battle  of  Monmouth,  was  indecisive,  but  the  Americans 

1778  held  the  field,   and  the  British  retreated  and  remained 

inactive  for  the  rest  of  tlie  summer. 

ON  the  bloody  field  of  Monmouth 
Flashed  the  guns  of  Greene  and  Wayne. 
Fiercely  roared  the  tide  of  battle, 
Thick  the  sward  was  heaped  with  slain. 
Foremost,  facing  death  and  danger, 

Hessian,  horse,  and  grenadier, 
In  the  vanguard,  fiercely  fighting, 
Stood  an  Irish  Cannonier. 

Loudly  roared  his  iron  cannon, 

Mingling  ever  in  the  strife, 
And  beside  him,  firm  and  daring, 

Stood  his  faithful  Irish  wife. 
Of  her  bold  contempt  of  danger 

Greene  and  Lee's  Brigades  could  tell, 
Every  one  knew  "Captain  Molly," 

And  the  army  loved  her  well. 

Surged  the  roar  of  battle  round  them, 
Swiftly  flew  the  iron  hail, 
[43  ] 


MOLLY  MAGUIRE  AT  MONMOUTH 

Forward  dashed  a  thousand  bayonets, 

That  lone  battery  to  assail. 
From  the  foeman's  foremost  columns 

Swept  a  furious  fusillade, 
Mowing  down  the  massed  battalions 

In  the  ranks  of  Greene's  Brigade. 

Fast  and  faster  worked  the  gunner, 

Soiled  with  powder,  blood,  and  dust, 
English  bayonets  shone  before  him, 

Shot  and  shell  around  him  burst; 
Still  he  fought  with  reckless  daring, 

Stood  and  manned  her  long  and  well, 
Till  at  last  the  gallant  fellow 

Dead — beside  his  cannon  fell. 

With  a  bitter  cry  of  sorrow, 

And  a  dark  and  angry  frown, 
Looked  that  band  of  gallant  patriots 

At  their  gunner  stricken  down. 
"Fall  back,  comrades,  it  is  folly 

Thus  to  strive  against  the  foe." 
"No!  not  so,"  cried  Irish  Molly; 

"We  can  strike  another  blow." 
***** 
Quickly  leaped  she  to  the  cannon, 

In  her  fallen  husband's  place, 
Sponged  and  rammed  it  fast  and  steady, 

Fired  it  in  the  foeman's  face. 
[  44  ] 


MOLLY  MAGUIRE  AT  MONMOUTH 

Flashed  another  ringing  volley, 

Roared  another  from  the  gun; 
"Boys,  hurrah!"  cried  gallant  Molly, 

"For  the  flag  of  Washington." 

Greene's  Brigade,  though  shorn  and  shattered, 

Slain  and  bleeding  half  their  men, 
When  they  heard  that  Irish  slogan, 

Turned  and  charged  the  foe  again. 
Knox  and  Wayne  and  Morgan  rally, 

To  the  front  they  forward  wheel, 
And  before  their  rushing  onset 

Clinton's  English  columns  reel. 

Still  the  cannon's  voice  in  anger 

Rolled  and  rattled  o'er  the  plain, 
Till  there  lay  in  swarms  around  it 

Mangled  heaps  of  Hessian  slain. 
"Forward!  charge  them  with  the  bayonet!" 

'Twas  the  voice  of  Washington, 
And  there  burst  a  fiery  greeting 

From  the  Irish  woman's  gun. 

Monckton  falls;  against  his  columns 
Leap  the  troops  of  Wayne  and  Lee, 

And  before  their  reeking  bayonets 
Clinton's  red  battalions  flee. 

Morgan's  rifles,  fiercely  flashing, 
Thin  the  foe's  retreating  ranks, 
[*5] 


MOLLY  MAGUIRE  AT  MONMOUTH 

And  behind  them  onward  dashing 
Ogden  hovers  on  their  flanks. 

Fast  they  fly,  these  boasting  Britons, 

Who  in  all  their  glory  came, 
With  their  brutal  Hessian  hirelings 

To  wipe  out  our  country's  name. 
Proudly  floats  the  starry  banner, 

Monmouth's  glorious  field  is  won, 
And  in  triumph  Irish  Molly 

Stands  beside  her  smoking  gun. 


[  46  ] 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

1780-  While  the  British  Army  held  South  Carolina,  Marion  and 

1781  Sumter  gathered  bands  of  partisans  and  waged  a  vigorous 

guerilla  warfare  most  harassing  and  destructive  to  the 

invader. 

OUR  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 
Our  leader  frank  and  bold; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 
When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 
Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery, 

That  little  dread  us  near! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear: 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 
[47] 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again. 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil; 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
[48] 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN 

A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 

Forever,  from  our  shore. 


[  49  ] 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  AMERICANS 
WHO  FELL  AT  EUTAW 

PHILIP  FRENEAU 

Sept.  8,  The  fight  of  Eutaw  Springs,  although  called  a  drawn  battle, 

1781  resulted  in  the  withdrawal  of  the  British  troops  from  South 

Carolina. 

AT  Eutaw  Springs  the  valiant  died: 
/-%         Their  limbs  with  dust  are  covered  o'er — 
*A.    JL.  Weep  on?  ve  springs,  your  tearful  tide; 
How  many  heroes  are  no  more ! 

If,  in  this  wreck  of  ruin,  they 

Can  yet  be  thought  to  claim  the  tear, 

Oh,  smite  your  gentle  breast,  and  say, 
The  friends  of  freedom  slumber  here ! 

Thou,  who  shalt  trace  this  bloody  plain, 
If  goodness  rules  thy  generous  breast, 

Sigh  for  the  wasted  rural  reign; 

Sigh  for  the  shepherds,  sunk  to  rest! 

Stranger,  their  humble  graves  adorn; 

You  too  may  fall,  and  ask  a  tear; 
'Tis  not  the  beauty  of  the  morn 

That  proves  the  evening  shall  be  clear, — 
[50] 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  AMERICANS 

They  saw  their  injur'd  country's  woe; 

The  flaming  town,  the  wasted  field; 
Then  rush'd  to  meet  the  insulting  foe; 

They  took  the  spear — but  left  the  shield. 

Led  by  thy  conquering  genius,  Greene, 
The  Britons  they  compell'd  to  fly: 

None  distant  view'd  the  fatal  plain, 

None  griev'd,  in  such  a  cause,  to  die, — 

But,  like  the  Parthians,  fam'd  of  old, 
Who,  flying,  still  their  arrows  threw; 

These  routed  Britons,  full  as  bold 
Retreated,  and  retreating  slew. 

Now  rest  in  peace,  our  patriot  band; 

Though  far  from  Nature's  limits  thrown, 
We  trust  they  find  a  happier  land, 

A  brighter  sunshine  of  their  own. 


[51  ] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

jujy  g  This  is  a  fragment  from  the  ode  for  the  centenary  of  Washing- 

•triritr  ton's  taking  command  of  the  American  army  at  Cambridge. 

SOLDIER  and  statesman,  rarest  unison; 
High-poised  example  of  great  duties  done 
Simply  as  breathing,  a  world's  honors  worn 
As  life's  indifferent  gifts  to  all  men  born; 
Dumb  for  himself,  unless  it  were  to  God, 
But  for  his  barefoot  soldiers  eloquent, 
Tramping  the  snow  to  coral  where  they  trod, 
Held  by  his  awe  in  hollow-eyed  content; 
Modest,  yet  firm  as  Nature's  self;  unblamed 
Save  by  the  men  his  nobler  temper  shamed; 
Never  seduced  through  show  of  present  good 
By  other  than  unsetting  lights  to  steer 
New-trimmed  in  Heaven,  nor  than  his  steadfast  mood 
More  steadfast,  far  from  rashness  as  from  fear, 
Rigid,  but  with  himself  first,  grasping  still 
In  swerveless  poise  the  wave-beat  helm  of  will; 
Not  honored  then  or  now  because  he  wooed 
The  popular  voice,  but  that  he  still  withstood; 
Broad-minded,  higher-souled,  there  is  but  one 
Who  was  all  this  and  ours,  and  all  men's— WASHINGTON. 

[52] 


Cop j right  by  Charles  Scribners  Sims 


Washington 


PERRY'S  VICTORY  ON  LAKE  ERIE 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL 

Sept.  10,  Throughout  the  war  of  1812  with  Great  Britain,  the  navy  was 

1813  more  successful  than  the  army.      In  the  battle  on  Lake 

Erie,  Commodore  Oliver  Hazard  Perry  captured  six  British 
vessels. 

BRIGHT  was  the  morn,— the  waveless  bay 
Shone  like  a  mirror  to  the  sun; 
'Mid  greenwood  shades  and  meadows  gay, 
The  matin  birds  their  lays  begun: 
While  swelling  o'er  the  gloomy  wood 
Was  heard  the  faintly-echoed  roar, — 
The  dashing  of  the  foaming  flood, 
That  beat  on  Erie's  distant  shore. 

The  tawny  wanderer  of  the  wild 
Paddled  his  painted  birch  canoe, 
And,  where  the  wave  serenely  smiled, 
Swift  as  the  darting  falcon,  flew; 
He  rowed  along  that  peaceful  bay, 
And  glanced  its  polished  surface  o'er, 
Listening  the  billow  far  away, 
That  rolled  on  Erie's  lonely  shore. 

What  sounds  awake  my  slumbering  ear, 
What  echoes  o'er  the  waters  come? 
[53  ] 


PERRY'S  VICTORY  ON  LAKE  ERIE 

It  is  the  morning  gun  I  hear, 

The  rolling  of  the  distant  drum. 

Far  o'er  the  bright  illumined  wave 

I  mark  the  flash, — I  hear  the  roar, 

That  calls  from  sleep  the  slumbering  brave, 

To  fight  on  Erie's  lonely  shore. 

See  how  the  starry  banner  floats, 
And  sparkles  in  the  morning  ray: 
While  sweetly  swell  the  fife's  gay  notes 
In  echoes  o'er  the  gleaming  bay: 
Flash  follows  flash,  as  through  yon  fleet 
Columbia's  cannons  loudly  roar, 
And  valiant  tars  the  battle  greet, 
That  storms  on  Erie's  echoing  shore. 

O,  who  can  tell  what  deeds  were  done, 
When  Britain's  cross,  on  yonder  wave, 
Sunk  'neath  Columbia's  dazzling  sun, 
And  met  in  Erie's  flood  its  grave? 
Who  tell  the  triumphs  of  that  day, 
When,  smiling  at  the  cannon's  roar, 
Our  hero,  'mid  the  bloody  fray, 
Conquered  on  Erie's  echoing  shore. 

Though  many  a  wounded  bosom  bleeds 
For  sire,  for  son,  for  lover  dear, 
Yet  Sorrow  smiles  amid  her  weeds, — 
Affliction  dries  her  tender  tear; 
[54  ] 


PERRY'S  VICTORY  ON  LAKE  ERIE 

Oh!  she  exclaims,  with  glowing  pride, 
With  ardent  thoughts  that  wildly  soar, 
My  sire,  my  son,  my  lover  died, 
Conquering  on  Erie's  bloody  shore. 

Long  shall  my  country  bless  that  day, 
When  soared  our  Eagle  to  the  skies; 
Long,  long  in  triumph's  bright  array, 
That  victory  shall  proudly  rise: 
And  when  our  country's  lights  are  gone, 
And  all  its  proudest  days  are  o'er, 
How  will  her  fading  courage  dawn, 
To  think  on  Erie's  bloody  shore! 


[55] 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER 

FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY 

Sept.  14,  After  the  British  had  burned  the  Capitol  at  Washington,  in 

1313  August,  1813,  they  retired  to  their  ships,  and  on  Septem- 

ber l%th  and  13th,  they  made  an  attack  on  Baltimore.  This 
poem  was  written  on  the  morning  after  the  bombardment 
of  Fort  McHenry,  while  the  author  was  a  prisoner  on  the 
British  fleet. 

OH!  say  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last 
gleaming; 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  through  the  perilous  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gallantly  streaming? 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there; 
Oh,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze  o'er  the  towering  steep 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses? 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam; 

Its  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream; 

Tis  the  star-spangled  banner!  Oh!  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave! 

[56] 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER 

And  where  is  the  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 
'Mid  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 

A  home  and  a  country  they'd  leave  us  no  more? 

Their  blood  hath  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution; 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave, 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave! 

Oh!  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  home  and  the  war's  desolation; 

Blessed  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  Heaven-rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just, 

And  this  be  our  motto,  "In  God  is  our  trust": 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 


[57  ] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH 

Jan#  8  The  treaty  of  peace  between  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States 

2815  was  signed  at  Ghent,  December  14,  1814;  but  before  the 

news  crossed  the  ocean,  Pakenham,  with  twelve  thousand 
British  veterans,  attacked  New  Orleans,  defended  by  An- 
drew Jackson  with  five  thousand  Americans,  mostly  militia. 
The  British  were  repulsed  with  a  loss  of  two  thousand; 
the  American  loss  was  trifling. 


H 


ERE,  in  my  rude  log  cabin, 
Few  poorer  men  there  be 
Among  the  mountain  ranges 
Of  Eastern  Tennessee. 
My  limbs  are  weak  and  shrunken, 

White  hairs  upon  my  brow, 
My  dog — lie  still,  old  fellow! — 

My  sole  companion  now. 
Yet  I,  when  young  and  lusty, 

Have  gone  through  stirring  scenes, 
For  I  went  down  with  Carroll 
To  fight  at  New  Orleans. 

You  say  you'd  like  to  hear  me 

The  stirring  story  tell 
Of  those  who  stood  the  battle 
[58] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

And  those  who  fighting  fell. 
Short  work  to  count  our  losses — 

We  stood  and  dropp'd  the  foe 
As  easily  as  by  firelight 

Men  shoot  the  buck  or  doe. 
And  while  they  fell  by  hundreds 

Upon  the  bloody  plain, 
Of  us,  fourteen  were  wounded, 

And  only  eight  were  slain. 

The  eighth  of  January, 

Before  the  break  of  day, 
Our  raw  and  hasty  levies 

Were  brought  into  array. 
No  cotton-bales  before  us — 

Some  fool  that  falsehood  told; 
Before  us  was  an  earthwork, 

Built  from  the  swampy  mould. 
And  there  we  stood  in  silence, 

And  waited  with  a  frown, 
To  greet  with  bloody  welcome 

The  bulldogs  of  the  Crown. 

The  heavy  fog  of  morning 
Still  hid  the  plain  from  sight, 

When  came  a  thread  of  scarlet 
Marked  faintly  in  the  white. 

We  fired  a  single  cannon, 
And  as  its  thunders  roll'd 
[59  ] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

The  mist  before  us  lifted 

In  many  a  heavy  fold. 
The  mist  before  us  lifted, 

And  in  their  bravery  fine 
Came  rushing  to  their  ruin 

The  fearless  British  line. 

Then  from  our  waiting  cannons 

Leap'd  forth  the  deadly  flame, 
To  meet  the  advancing  columns 

That  swift  and  steady  came. 
The  thirty-twos  of  Crowley 

And  Bluchi's  twenty-four, 
To  Spotts's  eighteen-pounders 

Responded  with  their  roar, 
Sending  the  grape-shot  deadly 

That  marked  its  pathway  plain, 
And  paved  the  road  it  travell'd 

With  corpses  of  the  slain. 

Our  rifles  firmly  grasping, 

And  heedless  of  the  din, 
We  stood  in  silence  waiting 

For  orders  to  begin. 
Our  fingers  on  the  triggers, 

Our  hearts,  with  anger  stirr'd, 
Grew  still  more  fierce  and  eager 

As  Jackson's  voice  was  heard: 
"Stand  steady !     Waste  no  powder 
[60] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

Wait  till  your  shots  will  tell! 
To-day  the  work  you  finish — 
See  that  you  do  it  well!" 

Their  columns  drawing  nearer, 

We  felt  our  patience  tire, 
When  came  the  voice  of  Carroll, 

Distinct  and  measured,  "Fire!" 
Oh!  then  you  should  have  mark'd  us 

Our  volleys  on  them  pour- 
Have  heard  our  joyous  rifles 

Ring  sharply  through  the  roar, 
And  seen  their  foremost  columns 

Melt  hastily  away 
As  snow  in  mountain  gorges 

Before  the  floods  of  May. 

They  soon  reform'd  their  columns, 

And  'mid  the  fatal  rain 
We  never  ceased  to  hurtle 

Came  to  their  work  again. 
The  Forty-fourth  is  with  them, 

That  first  its  laurels  won 
With  stout  old  Abercrombie 

Beneath  an  eastern  sun. 
It  rushes  to  the  battle, 

And,  though  within  the  rear 
Its  leader  is  a  laggard, 

It  shows  no  signs  of  fear. 
[  61  ] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

It  did  not  need  its  colonel, 

For  soon  there  came  instead 
An  eagle-eyed  commander, 

And  on  its  march  he  led. 
'Twas  Pakenham,  in  person, 

The  leader  of  the  field; 
I  knew  it  by  the  cheering 

That  loudly  round  him  peal'd; 
And  by  his  quick,  sharp  movement, 

We  felt  his  heart  was  stirr'd, 
As  when  at  Salamanca, 

He  led  the  fighting  Third. 

I  raised  my  rifle  quickly, 

I  sighted  at  his  breast, 
God  save  the  gallant  leader 

And  take  him  to  his  rest ! 
I  did  not  draw  the  trigger, 

I  could  not  for  my  life. 
So  calm  he  sat  his  charger 

Amid  the  deadly  strife, 
That  in  my  fiercest  moment 

A  prayer  arose  from  me, — 
God  save  that  gallant  leader, 

Our  foeman  though  he  be. 

Sir  Edward's  charger  staggers: 
He  leaps  at  once  to  ground, 
And  ere  the  beast  falls  bleeding 
[  62  ] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

Another  horse  is  found. 
His  right  arm  falls — 'tis  wounded; 

He  waves  on  high  his  left; 
In  vain  he  leads  the  movement, 

The  ranks  in  twain  are  cleft. 
The  men  in  scarlet  waver 

Before  the  men  in  brown, 
And  fly  in  utter  panic — 

The  soldiers  of  the  Crown ! 

I  thought  the  work  was  over, 

But  nearer  shouts  were  heard, 
And  came,  with  Gibbs  to  head  it, 

The  gallant  Ninety-third. 
Then  Pakenham,  exulting, 

With  proud  and  joyous  glance, 
Cried,  "Children  of  the  tartan — 

Bold  Highlanders — advance  ! 
Advance  to  scale  the  breastworks 

And  drive  them  from  their  hold, 
And  show  the  staunchless  courage 

That  mark'd  your  sires  of  old!" 

His  voice  as  yet  was  ringing, 

When,  quick  as  light,  there  came 

The  roaring  of  a  cannon, 

And  earth  seemed  all  aflame. 

Who  causes  thus  the  thunder 
The  doom  of  men  to  speak? 
[63] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

It  is  the  Baritarian, 

The  fearless  Dominique. 
Down  through  the  marshall'd  Scotsmen 

The  step  of  death  is  heard, 
And  by  the  fierce  tornado 

Falls  half  the  Ninety-third. 

The  smoke  passed  slowly  upward, 

And,  as  it  soared  on  high, 
I  saw  the  brave  commander 

In  dying  anguish  lie. 
They  bear  him  from  the  battle 

Who  never  fled  the  foe; 
Unmoved  by  death  around  them 

His  bearers  softly  go. 
In  vain  their  care,  so  gentle, 

Fades  earth  and  all  its  scenes; 
The  man  of  Salamanca 

Lies  dead  at  New  Orleans. 

But  where  were  his  lieutenants? 

Had  they  in  terror  fled? 
No !  Keane  was  sorely  wounded 

And  Gibbs  as  good  as  dead. 
Brave  Wilkinson  commanding, 

A  major  of  brigade, 
The  shatter'd  force  to  rally, 

A  final  effort  made. 
He  led  it  up  our  ramparts, 
[  64  ] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

Small  glory  did  he  gain — 
Our  captives  some,  while  others  fled, 
And  he  himself  was  slain. 

The  stormers  had  retreated, 

The  bloody  work  was  o'er; 
The  feet  of  the  invaders 

Were  seen  to  leave  our  shore. 
We  rested  on  our  rifles 

And  talk'd  about  the  fight, 
When  came  a  sudden  murmur 

Like  fire  from  left  to  right; 
We  turned  and  saw  our  chieftain, 

And  then,  good  friend  of  mine, 
You  should  have  heard  the  cheering 

That  rang  along  the  line. 

For  well  our  men  remembered 

How  little  when  they  came, 
Had  they  but  native  courage, 

And  trust  in  Jackson's  name; 
How  through  the  day  he  labored, 

How  kept  the  vigils  still, 
Till  discipline  controlled  us, 

A  stronger  power  than  will; 
And  how  he  hurled  us  at  them 

Within  the  evening  hour, 
That  red  night  in  December, 

And  made  us  feel  our  power. 
[65] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

In  answer  to  our  shouting 

Fire  lit  his  eye  of  gray; 
Erect,  but  thin  and  pallid, 

He  passed  upon  his  bay. 
Weak  from  the  baffled  fever, 

And  shrunken  in  each  limb, 
The  swamps  of  Alabama 

Had  done  their  work  on  him. 
But  spite  of  that  and  lasting, 

And  hours  of  sleepless  care, 
The  soul  of  Andrew  Jackson 

Shone  forth  in  glory  there. 


[66] 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE 

May  29,  The  penultimate  quatrain  [enclosed  in  brackets]  ended  the  poem 

1819  <w  Drake  urrote  it,  but  Fitz  Greene  Halleck  suggested  the 

final  four  lines,  and  Drake  accepted  his  friend's  quatrain 
in  place  of  his  own. 

WHEN  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there ! 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light, 
Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land ! 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest-tramping  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning-lances  driven, 

When  stride  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven ! 

[67] 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG 

Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  'tis  given 
To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 
The  harbingers  of  victory! 

Flag  of  the  brave!  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high! 
"When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on, 
(Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glist'ning  bayonet), 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  meteor-glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance ! 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall, 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall ! 
There  shall  thy  victor-glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath, 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below, 

The  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas!  on  ocean's  wave 
Thy  star  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
[68] 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG 

When  Death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
The  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look,  at  once,  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile,  to  see  thy  splendors  fly, 
In  triumph,  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given! 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven! 
[And  fixed  as  yonder  orb  divine, 

That  saw  thy  bannered  blaze  unfurled, 
Shall  thy  proud  stars  resplendent  shine, 

The  guard  and  glory  of  the  world.] 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us? 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us! 


[69] 


OLD  IRONSIDES 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

Sept.  \Qt  The  frigate  Constitution  was  launched  in  1797,  and  took  part 

1330  in  the  war  with  Tripoli  in  1804.     In  1812  she  captured 

the  British  Guerriere  on  August  19th,  and  the  British 
Java  on  December  2§th.  After  the  war  she  served  as  a 
training  ship.  In  1830  it  was  proposed  to  break  her  up, 
which  called  forth  this  indignant  poem.  In  1876  she  was 
refitted,  and  in  1878  she  took  over  the  American  exhibits 
to  the  Paris  Exhibition.  She  now  lies  out  of  commission 
in  Rotten  Row,  at  the  Brooklyn  Navy  Yard. 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down! 
/-\         Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
■^   ^*  And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 
And  burst  the  cannon's  roar; — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 
Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 
[70] 


OLD  IRONSIDES 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee; — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 
The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  God  of  storms, — 

The  lightning  and  the  gale! 


[71  ] 


MONTEREY 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN 

Sept.  19-24,  The  assaulting  American  army  at  the  attack  on  Monterey 

1846  numbered  six  thousand  six  hundred  and  twenty -five;  the 

defeated  Mexicans  were  about  ten  thousand. 

WE  were  not  many — we  who  stood 
Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 
Have  with  us  been  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on — still  on  our  column  kept, 

Through  walls  of  flame,  its  withering  way 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
[  72  ] 


MONTEREY 

We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And,  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play; 
Where  orange-boughs  above  their  grave 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many — we  who  pressed 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey? 


[73] 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

THEODORE  O'HARA 

Feb.  22,  23,  This  poem  was  written  to  commemorate  the  bringing  home  of 

1847  the  bodies  of  the  Kentucky  soldiers  who  fell  at  Buena 

Vista,  and  their  burial  at  Frankfort  at  the  cost  of  the  State. 

THE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 
The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 
That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  fame's  eternal  camping  ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 
The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms; 
No  braying  horn,  nor  screaming  fife, 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 
Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed; 
[74] 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout  are  past; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "Victory  or  death." 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain; 
[  75  ] 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'T  was  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  land, 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  father's  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain — 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  the  mouldering  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air; 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave; 
[76  ] 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil— 
The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

So,  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast, 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Kest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead, 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone, 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown 

The  story  how  ye  fell; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb, 
[  77  ] 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S 

FERRY 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

Oct.  16-Dec.  2,  It  was  on  Sunday,  October  16th,  that  John  Brown  took  the 

1 35 9  Arsenal  at  Harper's  Ferry.     On  the  ISth  he  was  captured. 

On  December  2d  he  was  hanged.     One  year  later  began 
the  War  which  caused  the  abolition  of  slavery. 

JOHN  BROWN  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yankee 
farmer, 
Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons,  all  stalwart  men  of 
might. 
There  he  spoke  aloud  for  freedom,  and  the  Borderstrife  grew 
warmer, 
Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelling,  in  his  absence,  in  the 

night; 

And  Old  Brown 

Osawatomie  Brown, 

Came  homeward  in  the  morning — to  find  his  house  burned 

down. 

Then  he  grasped  his  trusty  rifle  and  boldly  fought  for  freedom; 

Smote  from  border  unto  border  the  fierce,  invading  band; 

And  he  and  his  brave  boys  vowed — so  might  Heaven  help  and 

speed  'em ! — 

They  would  save  those  grand  old  prairies  from  the  curse  that 

blights  the  land; 

[78] 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Said,  "Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  us!"  and  he  shoved  his  ram- 
rod down. 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  and  they  labored  day  and 
even, 
Saving  Kansas  from  its  peril;  and  their  very  lives  seemed 
charmed, 
Till  the  ruffians  killed  one  son,  in  the  blessed  light  of  Heaven, — 
In  cold  blood  the  fellows  slew  him,  as  he  journeyed  all  un- 
armed; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Shed  not  a  tear,  but  shut  his  teeth,  and  frowned  a  terrible 
frown ! 

Then  they  seized  another  brave  boy, — not  amid  the  heat  of 
battle, 
But  in  peace,  behind  his  oloughshare, — and  they  loaded  him 
with  chains, 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even  as  they  goad  their 
cattle, 
Drove  him  cruelly,  for  their  sport,  and  at  last  blew  out  his 
brains; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Raised  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven,  calling  Heaven's  ven- 
geance down. 

[79] 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY 

And  he  swore  a  fearful  oath,  by  the  name  of  the  Almighty, 
He  would  hunt  this  ravening  evil  that  had  scathed  and  torn 
him  so; 
He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals;  he  would  crush  it  day  and 
night;  he 
Would  so  pursue  its  footsteps,  so  return  it  blow  for  blow, 
That  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Should  be  a  name  to  swear  by,  in  backwoods  or  in  town! 

Then  his  beard  became  more  grizzled,  and  his  wild  blue  eye 
grew  wilder, 
And  more  sharply  curved  his  hawk's-nose,  snuffing  battle 
from  afar; 
And  he  and  the  two  boys  left,  though  the  Kansas  strife  waxed 
milder, 
Grew  more  sullen,  till  was  over  the  bloody  Border  War, 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Had  gone  crazy,  as  they  reckoned  by  his  fearful  glare  and  frown. 

So  he  left  the  plains  of  Kansas  and  their  bitter  woes  behind 
him, 
Slipt  off  into  Virginia,  where  the  statesmen  all  are  born, 
Hired  a  farm  by  Harper's  Ferry,  and  no  one  knew  where  to 
find  him, 
Or  whether  he'd  turned  parson,  or  was  jacketed  and  shorn; 
For  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
[80] 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY 

Mad    as   he    was,   knew    texts   enough    to    wear   a    parson's 
gown. 

He  bought  no  ploughs  and  harrows,  spades  and  shovels,  and 
such  trifles; 
But  quietly  to  his  rancho  there  came,  by  every  train, 
Boxes  full  of  pikes  and  pistols,  and  his  well-beloved  Sharp's 
rifles; 
And  eighteen  other  madmen  joined  their  leader  there  again. 
Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
"Boys,  we've  got  an  army  large  enough  to  march  and  take 
the  town ! 

"Take  the  town,  and  seize  the  muskets,  free  the  negroes  and 
then  arm  them; 
Carry  the  County  and  the  State,  ay,  and  all  the  potent  South. 
On  their  own  heads  be  the  slaughter,  if  their  victims  rise  to 
harm  them — 
These  Virginians !  who  believed  not,  nor  would  heed  the 
warning  mouth." 

Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
"The  world  shall  see  a  Republic,  or  my  name  is  not  John 
Brown." 

'T  was  the  sixteenth  of  October,  on  the  evening  of  a  Sunday: 
"This  good  work,"  declared  the  captain,  "shall  be  on  a  holy 
night!" 

[81  ] 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  before  the  noon  of  Monday, 
With   two   sons,   and   Captain   Stephens,   fifteen  privates — 
black  and  white, 

Captain  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Marched  across  the  bridged  Potomac,  and  knocked  the  sentry 
down; 

Took  the  guarded  armory-building,  and  the  muskets  and  the 
cannon; 
Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  the  colonels,  one  by  one; 
Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Virginia  they  ran  on, 
And  before  the  noon  of  Monday,  I  say,  the  deed  was  done. 
Mad  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men,  went  in  and  took  the  town. 

Very  little  noise  and  bluster,  little  smell  of  powder  made  he; 
It  was  all  done  in  the  midnight,  like  the  Emperor's  coup 
d'etat. 
"Cut  the  wires!    Stop  the  rail-cars!    Hold  the  streets  and 
bridges!"  said  he, 
Then  declared  the  new  Republic,  with  himself  for  guiding 
star, — 

This  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown; 
And  the  bold  two  thousand  citizens  ran  off  and  left  the  town. 

Then   was  riding  and  railroading   and    expressing    here    and 
thither; 

[  82  ] 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY 

And  the  Martinsburg  Sharpshooters  and  the  Charlestown 
Volunteers, 
And    the    Shepherdstown    and    Winchester    Militia    hastened 
whither 
Old  Brown  was  said  to  muster  his  ten  thousand  grenadiers. 
General  Brown ! 
Osawatomie  Brown ! ! 
Behind   whose   rampant   banner   all   the   North  was  pouring 
down. 

But  at  last,  't  is  said,  some  prisoners  escaped  from  Old  Brown's 
durance, 
And  the  effervescent  valor  of  the  Chivalry  broke  out, 
When  they  learned  that  nineteen  madmen  had  the  marvelous 
assurance — 
Only  nineteen — thus  to  seize  the  place  and  drive  them  straight 
about; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Found  an  army  come  to  take  him,  encamped  around  the  town. 

But  to  storm,  with  all  the  forces  I  have  mentioned,  was  too 
risky; 
So  they  hurried  off  to  Richmond  for  the  Government  Ma- 
rines, 
Tore  them  from  their  weeping  matrons,  fired  their  souls  with 
Bourbon  whiskey, 
Till  they  battered  down  Brown's  castle  with  their  ladders 
and  machines; 

[83] 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Received  three  bayonet  stabs,  and  a  cut  on  his  brave  old  crown. 

Tallyho !  the  old  Virginia  gentry  gathei  to  the  baying ! 

In  they  rushed  and  killed  the  game,  shooting  lustily  away; 
And  whene'er  they  slew  a  rebel,  those  who  came  too  late  for 
slaying, 
Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fired  their  bullets  in  his  clay; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Saw  his  sons  fall  dead  beside  him,  and  between  them  laid  him 
down. 

How  the  conquerors  wore  their  laurels;  how  they  hastened  on 
the  trial; 
How  Old  Brown  was  placed,  half  dying,  on  the  Charlestown 
court-house  floor; 
How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the  scorn  of  all  denial; 
What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them, — these  are  known 
the  country  o'er. 

"Hang  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown." 
Said  the  judge,  "and  all  such  rebels!"  with  his  most  judicial 
frown. 

But,  Virginians,  don't  do  it!  for  I  tell  you  that  the  flagon, 
Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's  offspring,  was  first  poured 
by  Southern  hands; 

[84  ] 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY 

And  each  drop  from  Old  Brown's  life-veins,  like  the  red  gore 
of  the  dragon, 
May  spring  up  a  vengeful  Fury,  hissing  through  your  slave- 
worn  lands ! 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
May  trouble  you  more  than  ever,  when  you've  nailed  his  coffin 
down ! 


[85] 


APOCALYPSE 

RICHARD  REALF 

April  19,  The  first  life  lost  in  the  battle  with  rebellion  was  that  of  Private 

1861  Arthur  Ladd,  of  the  Sixth  Massachusetts,  killed  in  the 

attack  of  the  Baltimore  mob. 


s 


TRAIGHT  to  Lis  heart  the  bullet  crushed; 
Down  from  his  breast  the  red  blood  gushed, 
And  o'er  his  face  a  glory  rushed. 


A  sudden  spasm  shook  his  frame, 
And  in  his  ears  there  went  and  came 
A  sound  as  of  devouring  flame. 

Which  in  a  moment  ceased,  and  then 
The  great  light  clasped  his  brows  again, 
So  that  they  shone  like  Stephen's  when 

Saul  stood  apart  a  little  space 

And  shook  with  shuddering  awe  to  trace 

God's  splendors  settling  o'er  his  face. 

Thus,  like  a  king,  erect  in  pride, 
Raising  clean  hands  toward  heaven,  he  cried: 
"All  hail  the  Stars  and  Stripes!"  and  died. 
[86] 


APOCALYPSE 

Died  grandly.     But  before  he  fell — 
(O  blessedness  ineffable !) 
Vision  apocalyptical 

Was  granted  to  him,  and  his  eyes, 
All  radiant  with  glad  surprise, 
Looked  forward  through  the  Centuries, 

And  saw  the  seeds  which  sages  cast 
In  the  world's  soil  in  cycles  past, 
Spring  up  and  blossom  at  the  last; 

Saw  how  the  souls  of  men  had  grown, 
And  where  the  scythes  of  Truth  had  mown 
Clear  space  for  Liberty's  white  throne; 

Saw  how,  by  sorrow  tried  and  proved, 
The  blackening  stains  had  been  removed 
Forever  from  the  land  he  loved; 

Saw  Treason  crushed  and  Freedom  crowned, 
And  clamorous  Faction,  gagged  and  bound, 
Gasping  its  life  out  on  the  ground. 


With  far-off  vision  gazing  clear 
Beyond  this  gloomy  atmosphere 
Which  shuts  us  out  with  doubt  and  fear 
[87] 


APOCALYPSE 

He — marking  how  her  high  increase 
Ran  greatening  in  perpetual  lease 
Through  balmy  years  of  odorous  Peace 

Greeted  in  one  transcendent  cry 

Of  intense,  passionate  ecstasy 

The  sight  which  thrilled  him  utterly; 

Saluting,  with  most  proud  disdain 
Of  murder  and  of  mortal  pain, 
The  vision  which  shall  be  again! 

So,  lifted  with  prophetic  pride, 

Raised  conquering  hands  to  heaven  and  cried: 

"All  hail  the  Stars  and  Stripes!"  and  died. 


[88] 


THE  PICKET  GUARD 

ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS 

g     t  The  stereotyped  announcement,  "All  Quiet  on  the  Potomac" 

JL?  was  followed  one  day  in  September,  1861,  by  the  words, 

"A  Picket  Shot,"  and  these  so  moved  the  authoress  that 
she  wrote  this  poem  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 

"  A  LL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 
JL\         "Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
JL    JL  is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing — a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle; 
Not  an  officer  lost— only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest-leaves  softly  is  creeping; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard— for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 
As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
[89  ] 


THE  PICKET  GUARD 

And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 

His  musket  falls  slack — his  face,  dark  and  grim, 
Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 

As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep — 
For  their  mother — may  Heaven  defend  her! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips — when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark!  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle— "Ah!  Mary,  good-bye!" 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — 

The  picket's  off  duty  forever. 
[90] 


Copyright  by  Charles  Srribner's  Sons 
! 


The  picket  guard 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD 

Oct.,  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

1861 

A  LONG  a  riverside,  I  know  not  where, 
A-\     I  walked  one  night  in  mystery  of  dream; 
"^  A  chill  creeps  curdling  yet  beneath  my  hair, 
To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid  gleam 
Of  a  moon-wraith  that  waned  through  haunted  air. 

Pale  fireflies  pulsed  within  the  meadow-mist 
Their  halos,  wavering  thistledowns  of  light; 
The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some  goblin  tryst, 
Laughed;  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  affright, 
Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down  the  night. 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote  my  ear 

A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked  my  breath: 

Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer? 

But  something  said,  "This  water  is  of  Death! 

The  Sisters  wash  a  shroud, — ill  thing  to  hear!" 

I,  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient  Three 
Known  to  the  Greek's  and  to  the  Northman's  creed, 
That  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  Tree, 
Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  endless  brede, 
One  song:  "Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time  shall  be." 

[91  ] 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD 

No  wrinkled  crones  were  they,  as  I  had  deemed, 
But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow, 
To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever  seemed; 
Something  too  high  for  joy,  too  deep  for  sorrow, 
Thrilled  in  their  tones,  and  from  their  faces  gleamed. 

"Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they  have  strawn," 

So  sang  they,  working  at  their  task  the  while; 

"The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed  ere  dawn; 

For  Austria?  Italy?  the  Sea-Queen's  isle? 

O'er  what  quenched  grandeur  must  our  shroud  be  drawn? 

"Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer  corse, 
That  gathered  States  for  children  round  his  knees, 
That  tamed  the  wave  to  be  his  posting-horse, 
Feller  of  forests,  linker  of  the  seas, 
Bridge-builder,  hammerer,  youngest  son  of  Thor's? 

"What  make  we,  murmur'st  thou?  and  what  are  we? 
When  empires  must  be  wound,  we  bring  the  shroud, 
The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable  Three: 
Is  it  too  coarse  for  him,  the  young  and  proud? 
Earth's  mightiest  deigned  to  wear  it, — why  not  he?" 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  I  moaned,  "so  strong,  so  fair! 
Our  Fowler  whose  proud  bird  would  brook  erewhile 
No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air! 
Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 
For  him,  life's  morn  yet  golden  in  his  hair? 

[  92  ] 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD 

"Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  unpitying  dames! 
I  see,  half  seeing.     Tell  me,  ye  who  scanned 
The  stars,  Earth's  elders,  still  must  noblest  aims 
Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sands? 
Must  Hesper  join  the  wailing  ghosts  of  names?" 

"When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  battle-dew 
Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victor  and  the  slain: 
Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal  and  true 
To  the  heart's  longing,  the  high  faith  of  brain? 
Yet  there  the  victory  lies,  if  ye  but  knew. 

"Three  roots  bear  up  Dominion:  Knowledge,  Will, — 

These  twain  are  strong,  but  stronger  yet  the  third, — 

Obedience, — 't  is  the  great  tap-root  that  still, 

Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not  stirred, 

Though  Heaven-loosed  tempests  spend  their  utmost  skill. 

"Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper?     'T  is  not  we 
Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all  time: 
The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity; 
The  waverer,  paltering  with  the  chance  sublime, 
Dwarfs  it  to  peril:  which  shall  Hesper  be? 

"Hath  he  let  vultures  climb  his  eagle's  seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their  maw? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found  more  sweet 
Than  Wisdom?  held  Opinion's  wind  for  Law? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  doomster's  feet." 

[93  ] 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD 

"Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in  flintiest  rock, 
States  climb  to  power  by;  slippery  those  with  gold 
Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal  mock: 
No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the  sceptre  hold, 
Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell  the  block. 

"We  sing  old  Sagas,  songs  of  weal  and  woe, 
Mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours;  men  hear  and  know, 
See  Evil  weak,  see  strength  alone  in  Good, 
Yet  hope  to  stem  God's  fire  with  walls  of  tow. 

"Time  Was  unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time  Is, 
That  offers  choice  of  glory  or  of  gloom; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall  Be  surely  his. 
But  hasten,  Sisters !  for  even  now  the  tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinge  and  calls  from  the  abyss." 

"But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,  "not  yet  for  him, 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star  by  star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  Ocean's  rim 
The  sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golden  bar, 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eye  grow  dim ! 

"His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  saved  for  those 
That  walk  unblenching  through  the  trial-fires; 
Not  suffering,  but  faint  heart,  is  worst  of  woes, 
And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven  sires, 
Whose  eye  need  blench  confronted  with  his  foes. 

[94  ] 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD 

"Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those  who  win 
Death's  royal  purple  in  the  foeman's  lines; 
Peace,  too,  brings  tears;  and  'mid  the  battle-din, 
The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines, 
For  the  sheathed  blade  may  rust  with  darker  sin. 

"God,  give  us  peace!  not  such  as  lulls  to  sleep, 

But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  purpose  knit ! 

And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor  sweep, 

Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 

And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering  for  their  leap!" 

So  cried  I  with  clenched  hands  and  passionate  pain, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side; 
Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and  again 
The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night  and  died, 
While  waking  I  recalled  my  wandering  brain. 


[95] 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE 

Nov.,  This  war-song  was  written  to  the  tune  of  "John  Brown's  Body" 

18QI  — a  tune  to  which  many  thousands  of  Volunteers  were 

marching  to  the  front. 

MINE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 
Lord: 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes 
of  wrath  are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift  sword: 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and  damps; 
I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps. 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel: 
"As  ye  deal  with  My  contemners,  so  with  you  My  grace  shall 

deal; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  His  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment-seat: 

[96] 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

Oh !  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him !  be  jubilant,  my  feet ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me: 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 


[97] 


AT  PORT  ROYAL 

1861  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 
The  ship-lights  on  the  sea; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 
Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 

Our  good  boats  forward  swing; 
And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 

Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song: 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 

And  poor  home-comforts  please; 
The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 

With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 
[98] 


AT  PORT  ROYAL 

Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre, 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast; 

From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate, 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles; 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days  — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds: 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 

SONG  OF  THE  NEGRO  BOATMEN 

O,  praise  an'  tanks !    De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An*  we  ob  jubilee. 

[99  ] 


AT  PORT  ROYAL 

De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den; 
He  say  de  word:  we  las'  night  slaves; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn: 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind; 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn: 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

We  pray  de  Lord:  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
[  100  ] 


AT  PORT  ROYAL 

De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn: 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 

De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word; 
So  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord: 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door 

An'  trow  away  de  key; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He'll  gib  de  rice  an'  corn: 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

[  101  ] 


AT  PORT  ROYAL 

Rude  seems  the  song;  each  swarthy  face 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still: 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts !  your  chant  shall  be 
Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom, — 

The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 
Or  death-rune  of  our  doom ! 


[  102  ] 


1861 


READY 

PHCEBE  CARY 

10ADED  with  gallant  soldiers, 
A  boat  shot  in  to  the  land, 
-*  And  lay  at  the  right  of  Rodman's  Point 
With  her  keel  upon  the  sand. 

Lightly,  gayly,  they  came  to  shore, 

And  never  a  man  afraid; 
When  sudden  the  enemy  opened  fire 

From  his  deadly  ambuscade. 

Each  man  fell  flat  on  the  bottom 
Of  the  boat;  and  the  captain  said: 

"If  we  lie  here,  we  all  are  captured, 
And  the  first  who  moves  is  dead!" 

Then  out  spoke  a  negro  sailor, 

No  slavish  soul  had  he; 
"Somebody's  got  to  die,  boys, 

And  it  might  as  well  be  me!" 

Firmly  he  rose,  and  fearlessly 
Stepped  out  into  the  tide; 
[  103  ] 


READY 

He  pushed  the  vessel  safely  off, 
Then  fell  across  her  side: 

Fell,  pierced  by  a  dozen  bullets, 

As  the  boat  swung  clear  and  free; — 

But  there  wasn't  a  man  of  them  that  day 
Who  was  fitter  to  die  than  he! 


[  104  ] 


1861- 


HOW  ARE  YOU,  SANITARY?" 

BRET  HARTE 

Early  in  the  war  was  organized  the  U.  S.  Sanitary  Commission, 
to  supply  comforts  to  the  soldier  in  the  field  from  the  vol- 
1865  uniary  contributions  of  the  men  and  women  at  home.     Out 

of  this  grew  the  Red-Cross  Associations  of  Europe. 

DOWN  the  picket-guarded  lane 
Rolled  the  comfort-laden  wain, 
Cheered  by  shouts  that  shook  the  plain, 
Soldier-like  and  merry: 
Phrases  such  as  camps  may  teach, 
Sabre-cuts  of  Saxon  speech, 
Such  as  "Bully!"  "Them's  the  peach!" 
"Wade  in,  Sanitary!" 

Right  and  left  the  caissons  drew 
As  the  car  went  lumbering  through, 
Quick  succeeding  in  review 

Squadrons  military; 
Sunburnt  men  with  beards  like  frieze, 
Smooth-faced  boys,  and  cries  like  these  — 
"U.  S.  San.  Com."    "That's  the  cheese!" 

"Pass  in,  Sanitary!" 

In  such  cheer  it  struggled  on 
Till  the  battle  front  was  won, 
[  105  ] 


"HOW  ARE  YOU,  SANITARY?" 

Then  the  car,  its  journey  done, 

Lo !  was  stationary; 
And  where  bullets  whistling  fly, 
Came  the  sadder,  fainter  cry, 
"Help  us,  brothers,  ere  we  die, — 
Save  us,  Sanitary!" 

Such  the  work.  The  phantom  flies, 
Wrapped  in  battle  clouds  that  rise; 
But  the  brave — whose  dying  eyes, 

Veiled  and  visionary, 
See  the  jasper  gates  swung  wide, 
See  the  parted  throng  outside — 
Hears  the  voice  to  those  who  ride: 

"Pass  in,  Sanitary!" 


[  106  ] 


SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIERS 


C 


1861-  CHARLES  G.  HALPINE 

1865 

OMRADES  known  in  marches  many, 
Comrades,  tried  in  dangers  many, 
Comrades,  bound  by  memories  many, 
Brothers  let  us  be. 
Wounds  or  sickness  may  divide  us, 
Marching  orders  may  divide  us, 
But  whatever  fate  betide  us, 

Brothers  of  the  heart  are  we. 

Comrades,  known  by  faith  the  clearest, 
Tried  when  death  was  near  and  nearest, 
Bound  we  are  by  ties  the  dearest, 

Brothers  evermore  to  be. 
And,  if  spared,  and  growing  older, 
Shoulder  still  in  line  with  shoulder, 
And  with  hearts  no  thrill  the  colder, 

Brothers  ever  we  shall  be. 

By  communion  of  the  banner, — 
Crimson,  white,  and  starry  banner, — 
By  the  baptism  of  the  banner, 

Children  of  one  Church  are  we. 
[  107] 


SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIERS 

Creed  nor  faction  can  divide  us, 
Race  nor  language  can  divide  us 
Still,  whatever  fate  betide  us, 

Children  of  the  flag  are  we. 


[  108  ] 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

Jan.  6,  This  poetic  effusion  of  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  was  preceded  by  the 

lgg2  "Idyl  of  the  Bridge  and  the  Monument"  which  set  forth 

another  side  of  American  feeling  at  the  British  words  and 
deeds  consequent  on  the  unauthorized  capture,  by  Commo- 
dore Wilkes,  of  the  "  Trent,"  conveying  to  England  two 
Confederate  Commissioners. 

IT  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 
When  both  my  hands  was  full, 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John, — 
Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull ! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
We  know  it  now,"  sez  he, 
"The  lion's  paw  is  all  the  law, 
Accordin'  to  J.  B., 
Thet's  fit  for  you  an'  me!" 

You  wonder  why  we're  hot,  John? 

Your  mark  wuz  on  the  guns, 
The  neutral  guns,  thet  shot,  John, 
Our  brothers  an'  our  sons: 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
There's  human  blood,"  sez  he, 
"By  fits  an'  starts,  in  Yankee  hearts, 
[  109  ] 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN 

Though  't  may  surprise  J.  B. 
More  'n  it  would  you  an'  me." 

Ef  I  turned  mad  dogs  loose,  John, 

On  your  front-parlor  stairs, 
Would  it  jest  meet  your  views,  John, 
To  wait  and  sue  their  heirs? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
I  only  guess,"  sez  he, 
"Thet  ef  Vattel  on  his  toes  fell, 
'Twould  kind  o'  rile  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

Who  made  the  law  thet  hurts,  John, 

Heads  I  win, — ditto  tails? 
"J.  B."  was  on  his  shirts,  John, 
Onless  my  memory  fails, 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
(I'm  good  at  thet),"  sez  he, 
"Thet  sauce  for  goose  ain't  jest  the  juice 
For  ganders  with  J.  B., 
No  more  than  you  or  me!" 

When  your  rights  was  our  wrongs,  John, 

You  didn't  stop  for  fuss, — 
Britanny's  trident  prongs,  John, 
Was  good  'nough  law  for  us. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
Though  physic's  good,"  sez  he, 
[  no  ] 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN 

"It  doesn't  f oiler  that  he  can  swaller 
Prescriptions  signed  'J.  J5.,' 
Put  up  by  you  an'  me!" 

We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  John: 

You  mus'n'  take  it  hard, 
Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 
It's  jest  your  own  back-yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
Ef  thet's  his  claim,"  sez  he, 
"The  fencin'-stuff  '11  cost  enough 
To  bust  up  friend  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

Why  talk  so  dreffle  big,  John, 

Of  honor  when  it  meant 
You  didn't  care  a  fig,  John, 
But  jest  for  ten  per  cent? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
He's  like  the  rest,"  sez  he: 
"When  all  is  done,  it's  number  one 
Thet's  nearest  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

We  give  the  critters  back,  John, 

Cos  Abram  thought  'twas  right; 
It  warn't  your  bully  in'  clack,  John, 
Provokin'  us  to  fight. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
[  HI  1 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN 

We've  a  hard  row,"  sez  he, 
"To  hoe  jest  now;  but  thet  somehow, 
May  happen  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

We  ain't  so  weak  an'  poor,  John, 

With  twenty  million  people, 
An'  close  to  every  door,  John, 
A  school-house  an'  a  steeple. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
It  is  a  fact,"  sez  he, 
"The  surest  plan  to  make  a  Man 
Is,  think  him  so,  J.  B., 
Ez  much  ez  you  or  me ! " 

Our  folks  believe  in  Law,  John; 

An'  it's  for  her  sake,  now, 
They've  left  the  ax  an'  saw,  John, 
The  anvil  an'  the  plough. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
Ef  'twarn't  for  law,"  sez  he, 
"There'd  be  one  shindy  from  here  to  Indy, 
An'  thet  don't  suit  J.  B. 
(When  'tain't  'twixt  you  an'  me!)" 

We  know  we've  got  a  cause,  John, 

Thet's  honest,  just  an'  true; 
We  thought  'twould  win  applause,  John, 

Ef  nowheres  else,  from  you. 
[  112  ] 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
His  love  of  right,"  sez  he, 
"Hangs  by  a  rotten  fibre  o'  cotton: 
There's  natur'  in  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

The  South  says,  "Poor  folks  down!"  John, 

An,  "All  men  up!"  say  we, — 
White,  yaller,  black,  an'  brown,  John: 
Now  which  is  your  idee? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
John  preaches  wal,"  sez  he; 
"But,  sermon  thru,  an'  come  to  du, 
Why,  there's  the  old  J.  B. 
A  crowdin'  you  an'  me!" 

Shall  it  be  love,  or  hate,  John? 

It's  you  thet's  to  decide; 
Ain't  your  bonds  held  by  Fate,  John, 
Like  all  the  world's  beside? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
Wise  men  forgive,"  sez  he, 
"But  not  forget;  an'  some  time  yet 
Thet  truth  may  strike  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

God  means  to  make  this  land,  John, 

Clear  thru,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Believe  an'  understand,  John, 
[  113] 


a 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN 

The  wuth  o'  bein*  free. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 

God's  price  is  high,"  sez  he; 
But  nothin'  else  than  wut  He  sells 

Wears  long,  an'  thet  J.  B. 

May  larn,  like  you  an'  me!" 


[  114  ] 


THE  CUMBERLAND 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

March  8,  The  "Cumberland"  was  sunk  by  the  iron-clad  rebel  ram  "Mer- 

1862  rimac"  going  down  with  her  colors  flying,  and  firing  even 

as  the  water  rose  over  the  gunwale. 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 
/-%         On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war; 

"^  And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 

The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 

Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

t  n«] 


THE  CUMBERLAND 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"Strike  your  flag!"  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"Never!"  our  gallant  Morris  replies; 

"It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield!" 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas ! 
Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream; 
[  116] 


THE  CUMBERLAND 

Ho!  brave  land!  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam! 


[  117  ] 


KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES 

May  31,  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

1862 

SO  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey, — 
That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield ! 
'Twas  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and 
Birney, 
Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field, 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose  highest, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak  and 

pine, 
Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and  nighest, — 

No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 

Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held  our  ground, 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 

And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound; 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  our  powder, — 

His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered  the  sign: 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the  louder, 

"There's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the  whole  line!" 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed  !     How  we  saw  his  blade  brighten 
In  the  one  hand  still  left, — and  the  reins  in  his  teeth ! 

[118] 


KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES 

He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 
But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 

Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 

Asking  where  to  go  in, — through  the  clearing  or  pine? 

"O,  anywhere!    Forward!     Tis  all  the  same,  Colonel: 
You'll  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line!" 

O,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried ! 
Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride ! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still, — in  that  shadowy  region 

Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drummer's 
sign- 
Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 

And  the  word  still  is  Forward !  along  the  whole  line. 


[  H9] 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER 

GEORGE  H.  BOKER 

Sept.  1,  These  verses  were  written  in  memory  of  General  Philip  Kearny, 

1862  killed  at  Chantilly  after  he  had  ridden  out  in  advance  of 

his  men  to  reconnoitre. 

CLOSE  his  eyes;  his  work  is  done! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 
Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?  he  can  not  know: 
Lay  him  low! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow! 
What  cares  he?  he  can  not  know: 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 
Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley! 
[  120  ] 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER 

What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 
What  but  death  bemocking  folly? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?  he  can  not  know: 
Lay  him  low! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye, 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by: 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him, 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?  he  can  not  know: 
Lay  him  low ! 


[  121  ] 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTEER 

gept,  Qt  These  lines  were  suggested  by  a  newspaper  paragraph  which 

1862  lacked  foundation  in  fact. 


u 


P  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn. 


The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall, 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall,- 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 
[  122  ] 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind:  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"Halt!" — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"Fire!"— out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 
[  123  ] 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE 

"Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word: 

"Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog!    March  on!"  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet: 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her!  and  let  a  tear 
Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 
[  124  ] 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town! 


[  125  ] 


FREDERICKSBURG 

Dec.  13,  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

1862 

THE  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across  my  bed, 
And  on  the  churchyard  by  the  road,  I  know 
It  falls  as  white  and  noiselessly  as  snow. 
'Twas  such  a  night  two  weary  summers  fled; 
The  stars,  as  now,  were  waning  overhead. 
Listen !     Again  the  shrill-lipped  bugles  blow 
Where  the  swift  currents  of  the  river  flow 
Past  Fredericksburg:  far  off  the  heavens  are  red 
With  sudden  conflagration:  on  yon  height, 
Linstock  in  hand,  the  gunners  hold  their  breath: 
A  signal-rocket  pierces  the  dense  night, 
Flings  its  spent  stars  upon  the  town  beneath: 
Hark ! — the  artillery  massing  on  the  right, 
Hark ! — the  black  squadrons  wheeling  down  to  Death ! 


[  126  ] 


MUSIC  IN  CAMP 

Dec.  15-31,  JOHN  R.  THOMPSON 

1862 

TWO  armies  covered  hill  and  plain 
Where  Rappahannock's  waters 
Ran  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 
Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents 
In  meads  of  heavenly  azure; 

And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 
Slept  in  its  hid  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew,  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now  where  circling  hills  looked  down 
With  cannon  grimly  planted, 

O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town 
The  golden  sunset  slanted; 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 
A  strain,  now  rich,  now  tender, 
[  127  ] 


MUSIC  IN  CAMP 

The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 
With  day's  departing  splendor. 

A  Federal  band,  which  eve  and  morn 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up  with  flute  and  horn 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  bank; 

Till  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "Yanks," 

And  one  was  gray  with  "Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still;  and  then  the  band 
With  movements  light  and  tricksy, 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream,  with  burnished  glow, 

Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 
But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 

With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 

The  trumpet  pealed  sonorous, 
And  Yankee  Doodle  was  the  strain 

To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew 
To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles — 
[  128  ] 


MUSIC  IN  CAMP 

Loud  shrieked  the  crowding  Boys  in  Blue 
Defiance  to  the  Rebels. 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad,  lone  stream  its  noiseless  tread 
Spread  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles: 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood; 
All  silent  stood  the  Rebels: 

For  each  responsive  soul  had  heard 
That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 

So  deeply  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  had  stirred 
The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  blue  or  gray,  the  soldier  sees, 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  neath  the  live-oak  trees, 

The  cottage  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold  or  warm,  his  native  skies 
Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him: 

Sending  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes— 
The  dear  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain 
In  April's  tearful  weather, 
[  129  ] 


MUSIC  IN  CAMP 

The  vision  vanished  as  the  strain 
And  daylight  died  together. 

But  memory,  waked  by  music's  art 
Expressed  in  simplest  numbers, 

Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 
Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  Music  shines, 
That  bright,  celestial  creature, 

Who  still  'mid  war's  embattled  lines 
Gave  this  one  touch  of  nature. 


[  130 


KEENANS  CHARGE 

GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP 

May  2,  During  the  second  day  of  the  battle  of  Chancellor sville,  General 

18Q3  Pleasonton  was  trying  to  get  twenty-two  guns  into  a  vital 

position  as  Stonewall  Jackson  made  a  sudden  advance. 
Time  had  to  be  bought;  so  Pleasanton  ordered  Major 
Peter  Keenan,  commanding  the  Eighth  Pennsylvania 
Cavalry  (four  hundred  strong),  to  charge  the  advancing 
ten  thousand  of  the  enemy.  An  introduction  to  the  poem, 
setting  forth  these  facts,  is  omitted. 

BY  the  shrouded  gleam  of  the  western  skies, 
Brave  Keenan  looked  in  Pleasonton's  eyes 
For  an  instant — clear,  and  cool,  and  still; 
Then,  with  a  smile,  he  said:  "I  will." 

"Cavalry,  charge!"     Not  a  man  of  them  shrank. 
Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank, 
Rose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath — 
Rose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 
Then  forward  they  sprang,  and  spurred  and  clashed; 
Shouted  the  officers,  crimson-sash'd; 
Rode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 
In  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow; 
And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true, 
Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 
[  131  ] 


KEENAN'S  CHARGE 

With  clank  of  scabbards  and  thunder  of  steeds, 
And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 
And  strong  brown  faces  bravely  pale 
For  fear  their  proud  attempt  shall  fail, 
Three  hundred  Pennsylvanians  close 
On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes. 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ring'd  with  flame; 

Rode  in  and  sabred  and  shot — and  fell; 

Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 

And  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall 

In  the  gloom,  like  a  martyr  awaiting  his  fall, 

While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  sabre,  swung 

'Round  his  head,  like  a  halo  there,  luminous  hung. 

Line  after  line;  ay,  whole  platoons, 
Struck  dead  in  their  saddles,  of  brave  dragoons 
By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne 
And  into  the  vortex  flung,  trampled  and  torn; 
As  Keenan  fought  with  his  men,  side  by  side. 

So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 

But  over  them,  lying  there,  shattered  and  mute, 
What  deep  echo  rolls? — 'Tis  a  death  salute 
From  the  cannon  in  place;  for,  heroes,  you  braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain :  the  army  was  saved ! 
[  132  ] 


KEENAN'S  CHARGE 

Over  them  now — year  following  year — 

Over  their  graves,  the  pine-cones  fall, 

And  the  whip-poor-will  chants  his  spectre-call; 

But  they  stir  not  again:  they  raise  no  cheer: 

They  have  ceased.     But  their  glory  shall  never  cease, 

Xor  their  light  be  quenched  in  the  light  of  peace. 

The  rush  of  their  charge  is  resounding  still 

That  saved  the  armv  at  Chancellors ville. 


[  133  ] 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT 

GEORGE  H.  BOKER 

May  27,  "The  colored  troops  fought  nobly"  was  a  frequent  phrase  in 

Iggg  war  bulletins;  never  did  they  better  deserve  this  praise 

than  at  Port  Hudson. 

DARK  as  the  clouds  of  even, 
Ranked  in  the  western  heaven, 
Waiting  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dread  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a  ruined  land; — 
So  still  and  orderly, 
Arm  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
Waiting  the  great  event, 
Stands  the  black  regiment. 

Down  the  long  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam  and  eyeballs  shine; 
And  the  bright  bayonet, 
Bristling  and  firmly  set, 
Flashed  with  a  purpose  grand, 
Long  ere  the  sharp  command 
Of  the  fierce  rolling  drum 
Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
[  134  ] 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT 

Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  black  regiment. 

"Now,"  the  flag-sergeant  cried, 
"Though  death  and  hell  betide, 
Let  the  whole  nation  see 
If  we  are  fit  to  be 
Free  in  this  land;  or  bound 
Down,  like  the  whining  hound, — 
Bound  with  red  stripes  of  pain 
In  our  old  chains  again!" 
O,  what  a  shout  there  went 
From  the  black  regiment! 

"Charge!"  Trump  and  drum  awoke, 
Onward  the  bondmen  broke; 
Bayonet  and  sabre-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush. 
Through  the  wild  battle's  crush, 
With  but  one  thought  aflush, 
Driving  their  lords  like  chaff, 
In  the  guns'  mouths  they  laugh; 
Or  at  the  slippery  brands 
Leaping  with  open  hands, 
Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 
Down  in  their  awful  course; 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crashing  steel, 
[  135  ] 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT 

All  their  eyes  forward  bent, 
Rushed  the  black  regiment. 

"Freedom!"  their  battle-cry, — 
"Freedom!  or  leave  to  die!" 
Ah !  and  they  meant  the  word, 
Not  as  with  us  'tis  heard, 
Not  a  mere  party  shout: 
They  gave  their  spirits  out; 
Trusted  the  end  to  God, 
And  on  the  gory  sod 
Rolled  in  triumphant  blood. 

Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow, 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe; 
Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, 
Though  on  the  lips  of  death. 
Praying — alas !  in  vain  ! — 
That  they  might  fall  again, 
So  they  could  once  more  see 
That  burst  to  liberty ! 
This  was  what  "freedom"  lent 
To  the  black  regiment. 

Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell; 
But  they  are  resting  well; 
Scourges  and  shackles  strong 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 
[  136  ] 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT 

O,  to  the  living  few, 
Soldiers,  be  just  and  true ! 
Hail  them  as  comrades  tried; 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side; 
Never,  in  field  or  tent, 
Scorn  the  black  regiment. 


[  137  ] 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG 

July  1,  2,  3,  BRET  HARTE 

1863 

HAVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 
Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg  ?— No  ?    Ah,  well, 
Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns, 
Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns: 
He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown, — 
The  only  man  who  didn't  back  down 
When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town; 
But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 
When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 
That  was  in  July,  Sixty-three, 
The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 
Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 
Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 
From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 
I  might  tell  how  but  the  day  before 
John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage  door, 
Looking  down  the  village  street, 
Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 
He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 
And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet 
Or  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 
The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 

[  138  ] 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG 

The  milk  that  fell  like  a  babbling  flood 

Into  the  milk-pail  red  as  blood! 

Or  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 

Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 

But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 

Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 

Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 

Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 

Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine,- 

Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 

Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 

That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folks  say, 

He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.     On  the  right 
Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 
Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass,— 
Difficult  music  for  men  to  face; 
While  on  the  left— where  now  the  graves 
Undulate  like  the  living  waves 
That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 
Up  to  the  pits  the  Rebels  kept — 
Round  shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 
Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades; 
Shattered  fences  here  and  there 
Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air; 
The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare; 
The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 
Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain; 

[  139  ] 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire: 

"How  are  you,  White  Hat?"     "Put  her  through!" 

"Your  head's  level!"  and  "Bully  for  you!" 

Called  him  "Daddy," — begged  he'd  disclose 

The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 

And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those; 

While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 

Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off, — 

With  his  long  brown  rifle  and  bell-crown  hat, 

And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'Twas  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 

Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked: 

And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 

Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand, 

And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 

Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown; 

Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 

Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw, 

In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 

The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there; 

And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 

That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 

Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 

That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  raged  the  battle.     You  know  the  rest: 
How  the  rebels,  beaten  and  backward  pressed, 
Broke  at  the  final  charge,  and  ran, 

[  141  ] 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG 

At  which  John  Burns — a  practical  man — 
Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 
And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns; 
This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns: 
In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question's  whether 
You'll  show  a  hat  that's  white,  or  a  feather ! 


[  142  ] 


TWILIGHT  ON  SUMTER 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

Aug.  24,  After   the    surrender    of   Major    Anderson,    the    Confederates 

1863  strengthened  the  fort;  but,  in  the  spring  of  1863,  the  U.  S. 

guns  on  Morris  Island  battered  it  into  a  shapeless  ruin. 


s 


[TILL  and  dark  along  the  sea 
Sumter  lay; 
A  light  was  overhead, 
As  from  burning  cities  shed, 
And  the  clouds  were  battle-red, 

Far  away. 
Not  a  solitary  gun 
Left  to  tell  the  fort  had  won, 

Or  lost  the  day ! 
Nothing  but  the  tattered  rag 
Of  the  drooping  Rebel  flag, 
And  the  sea-birds  screaming  round  it  in  their  play. 

How  it  woke  one  April  morn, 

Fame  shall  tell; 
As  from  Moultrie,  close  at  hand, 
And  the  batteries  on  the  land, 
Round  its  faint  but  fearless  band 

Shot  and  shell 
[  143  ] 


TWILIGHT  ON  SUMTER 

Raining  hid  the  doubtful  light; 
But  they  fought  the  hopeless  fight 

Long  and  well, 
(Theirs  the  glory,  ours  the  shame !) 
Till  the  walls  were  wrapt  in  flame, 
Then  their  flag  was  proudly  struck,  and  Sumter  fell. 

Now — oh,  look  at  Sumter  now, 

In  the  gloom ! 
Mark  its  scarred  and  shattered  walls, 
(Hark !  the  ruined  rampart  falls !) 
There's  a  justice  that  appals 

In  its  doom; 
For  this  blasted  spot  of  earth 
Where  Rebellion  had  its  birth 

Is  its  tomb ! 
And  when  Sumter  sinks  at  last 
From  the  heavens,  that  shrink  aghast, 
Hell  shall  rise  in  grim  derision  and  make  room ! 


[  144  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL 

August  5,  The  poet  was  acting  ensign  on  the  staff  of  Admiral  Farragut, 

1864  when  he  led  his  squadron  past  Forts  Morgan  and  Gaines, 

and  into  a  victorious  fight  with  the  Confederate  fleet  in  the 
Bay  of  Mobile.     The  poem  is  here  somewhat  shortened. 

THREE  days  through  sapphire  seas  we  sailed, 
The  steady  Trade  blew  strong  and  free, 
The  Northern  Light  his  banners  paled, 
The  Ocean  Stream  our  channels  wet, 

We  rounded  low  Canaveral's  lee, 
And  passed  the  isles  of  emerald  set 
In  blue  Bahama's  turquoise  sea. 

By  reef  and  shoal  obscurely  mapped, 
And  hauntings  of  the  gray  sea-wolf, 

The  palmy  Western  Key  lay  lapped 
In  the  warm  washing  of  the  Gulf. 

But  weary  to  the  hearts  of  all 

The  burning  glare,  the  barren  reach 
Of  Santa  Rosa's  withered  beach, 

And  Pensacola's  ruined  wall. 

And  weary  was  the  long  patrol, 

The  thousand  miles  of  shapeless  strand, 
[  145  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

From  Brazos  to  San  Bias  that  roll 
Their  drifting  dunes  of  desert  sand. 

Yet,  coast-wise  as  we  cruised  or  lay, 
The  land-breeze  still  at  nightfall  bore, 

By  beach  and  fortress-guarded  bay, 
Sweet  odors  from  the  enemy's  shore, 

Fresh  from  the  forest  solitudes, 
Unchallenged  of  his  sentry  lines — 

The  bursting  of  his  cypress  buds, 
And  the  warm  fragrance  of  his  pines. 

Ah,  never  braver  bark  and  crew, 
Nor  bolder  Flag  a  foe  to  dare. 

Had  left  a  wake  on  ocean  blue 

Since  Lion-Heart  sailed  Trenc-le-mer  I 

But  little  gain  by  that  dark  ground 
Was  ours,  save,  sometime,  freer  breath 

For  friend  or  brother  strangely  found, 
'Scaped  from  the  drear  domain  of  death. 

And  little  venture  for  the  bold, 
Or  laurel  for  our  valiant  Chief, 
Save  some  blockaded  British  thief, 

Full  fraught  with  murder  in  his  hold, 

Caught  unawares  at  ebb  or  flood — 
Or  dull  bombardment,  day  by  day, 
[  146  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

With  fort  and  earth-work,  far  away, 
Low  couched  in  sullen  leagues  of  mud. 

A  weary  time, — but  to  the  strong 
The  day  at  last,  as  ever,  came; 

And  the  volcano,  laid  so  long, 

Leaped  forth  in  thunder  and  in  flame! 

"Man  your  starboard  battery!" 
Kimberly  shouted — 
The  ship,  with  her  hearts  of  oak, 
Was  going,  mid  roar  and  smoke, 
On  to  victory ! 
None  of  us  doubted — 
No,  not  our  dying — 
Farragut's  flag  was  flying! 

Gaines  growled  low  on  our  left, 
Morgan  roared  on  our  right — 

Before  us,  gloomy  and  fell, 

With  breath  like  the  fume  of  hell, 

Lay  the  Dragon  of  iron  shell, 
Driven  at  last  to  the  fight! 

Ha,  old  ship!  do  they  thrill, 
The  brave  two  hundred  scars 
You  got  in  the  River- Wars? 

That  were  leeched  with  clamorous  skill, 
(Surgery  savage  and  hard), 
[  147  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

Splinted  with  bolt  and  beam, 
Probed  in  scarfing  and  seam, 

Rudely  linted  and  tarred 
With  oakum  and  boiling  pitch, 
And  sutured  with  splice  and  hitch 

At  the  Brooklyn  Navy-Yard! 

Our  lofty  spars  were  down, 
To  bide  the  battle's  frown 
(Wont  of  old  renown) — 
But  every  ship  was  drest 
In  her  bravest  and  her  best, 

As  if  for  a  July  day; 
Sixty  flags  and  three, 

As  we  floated  up  the  bay — 
Every  peak  and  mast-head  flew 
The  brave  Red,  White,  and  Blue— 

We  were  eighteen  ships  that  day. 

With  hawsers  strong  and  taut, 
The  weaker  lashed  to  port, 

On  we  sailed,  two  by  two — 
That  if  either  a  bolt  should  feel 
Crash  through  caldron  or  wheel, 
Fin  of  bronze  or  sinew  of  steel, 

Her  mate  might  bear  her  through. 

Steadily  nearing  the  head, 
The  great  Flag-Ship  led, 
[  148  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

Grandest  of  sights! 
On  her  lofty  mizzen  flew 
Our  Leader's  dauntless  Blue, 

That  had  waved  o'er  twenty  fights — 
So  we  went,  with  the  first  of  the  tide, 

Slowly,  mid  the  roar 

Of  the  Rebel  guns  ashore 
And  the  thunder  of  each  full  broadside. 

Ah,  how  poor  the  prate 
Of  statute  and  state, 

We  once  held  with  these  fellows — 
Here,  on  the  flood's  pale-green, 

Hark  how  he  bellows, 

Each  bluff  old  Sea-Lawyer! 
Talk  to  them,  Dahlgren, 

Parrott,  and  Sawyer! 

On,  in  the  whirling  shade 

Of  the  cannon's  sulphury  breath, 
We  drew  to  the  Line  of  Death 

That  our  devilish  Foe  had  laid — 

Meshed  in  a  horrible  net, 
And  baited  villainous  well, 

Right  in  our  path  were  set 
Three  hundred  traps  of  hell! 

And  there,  O  sight  forlorn! 
There,  while  the  cannon 
[  149  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

Hurtled  and  thundered — 
(Ah,  what  ill  raven 
Flapped  o'er  the  ship  that  morn !) — 
Caught  by  the  under-death, 
In  the  drawing  of  a  breath, 
Down  went  dauntless  Craven, 
He  and  his  hundred ! 

A  moment  we  saw  her  turret, 

A  little  heel  she  gave, 
And  a  thin  white  spray  went  o'er  her, 

Like  the  crest  of  a  breaking  wave — 
In  that  great  iron  coffin, 

The  channel  for  their  grave, 

The  fort  their  monument, 
(Seen  afar  in  the  offing,) 
Ten  fathom  deep  lie  Craven, 

And  the  bravest  of  our  brave. 

Then,  in  that  deadly  track, 
A  little  the  ships  held  back, 

Closing  up  in  their  stations — 
There  are  minutes  that  fix  the  fate 

Of  battles  and  of  nations 

(Christening  the  generations,) 
When  valor  were  all  too  late, 

If  a  moment's  doubt  be  harbored 
From  the  main-top,  bold  and  brief, 
Came  the  word  of  our  grand  old  Chief- 
[  150  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

"Go  on!" — 'twas  all  he  said — 
Our  helm  was  put  to  the  starboard, 
And  the  Hartford  passed  ahead. 

Ahead  lay  the  Tennessee, 

On  our  starboard  bow  he  lay, 
With  his  mail-clad  consorts  three, 

(The  rest  had  run  up  the  Bay) — 
There  he  was,  belching  flame  from  his  bow, 
And  the  steam  from  his  throat's  abyss 
Was  a  Dragon's  maddened  hiss — 

In  sooth  a  most  cursed  craft! — 
In  a  sullen  ring  at  bay 
By  the  Middle  Ground  they  lay, 

Raking  us  fore  and  aft. 

Trust  me,  our  berth  was  hot, 

Ah,  wickedly  well  they  shot; 
How  their  death-bolts  howled  and  stung! 

And  the  water-batteries  played 

With  their  deadly  cannonade 
Till  the  air  around  us  rung; 
So  the  battle  raged  and  roared — 
Ah,  had  you  been  aboard 

To  have  seen  the  fight  we  made ! 
How  they  leaped,  the  tongues  of  flame, 

From  the  cannon's  fiery  lip! 
How  the  broadsides,  deck  and  frame, 

Shook  the  great  ship ! 
[151  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

And  how  the  enemy's  shell 
Came  crashing,  heavy  and  oft, 
Clouds  of  splinters  flying  aloft 

And  falling  in  oaken  showers — 
But  ah,  the  pluck  of  the  crew ! 

Had  you  stood  on  that  deck  of  ours 
You  had  seen  what  men  may  do. 

Still,  as  the  fray  grew  louder, 

Boldly  they  worked  and  well; 
Steadily  came  the  powder, 

Steadily  came  the  shell. 
And  if  tackle  or  truck  found  hurt, 

Quickly  they  cleared  the  wreck; 
And  the  dead  were  laid  to  port, 

All  a-row,  on  our  deck. 

Never  a  nerve  that  failed, 

Never  a  cheek  that  paled, 
Not  a  tinge  of  gloom  or  pallor — 

There  was  bold  Kentucky's  grit, 
And  the  old  Virginian  valor, 

And  the  daring  Yankee  wit. 

There  were  blue  eyes  from  turfy  Shannon, 
There  were  black  orbs  from  palmy  Niger- 

But  there,  alongside  the  cannon, 
Each  man  fought  like  a  tiger! 
[  152  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

A  little,  once,  it  looked  ill, 

Our  consort  began  to  burn — 
They  quenched  the  flames  with  a  will, 
But  our  men  were  falling  still, 
And  still  the  fleet  was  astern. 

Right  abreast  of  the  Fort 
In  an  awful  shroud  they  lay, 
Broadsides  thundering  away, 

And  lightning  from  every  port — 
Scene  of  glory  and  dread ! 

A  storm-cloud  all  aglow 

With  flashes  of  fiery  red — 
The  thunder  raging  below, 

And  the  forest  of  flags  o'erhead! 

So  grand  the  hurly  and  roar, 

So  fiercely  their  broadsides  blazed, 

The  regiments  fighting  ashore 
Forgot  to  fire  as  they  gazed. 

There,  to  silence  the  Foe, 

Moving  grimly  and  slow, 
They  loomed  in  that  deadly  wreath, 

Where  the  darkest  batteries  frowned 

Death  in  the  air  all  round, 
And  the  black  torpedoes  beneath! 
[153] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

And  now,  as  we  looked  ahead, 
All  for'ard,  the  long  white  deck 

Was  growing  a  strange  dull  red; 
But  soon,  as  once  and  agen 

Fore  and  aft  we  sped 

(The  firing  to  guide  or  check,) 

You  could  hardly  choose  but  tread 
On  the  ghastly  human  wreck, 

(Dreadful  gobbet  and  shred 

That  a  minute  ago  were  men !) 

Red,  from  mainmast  to  bitts! 

Red,  on  bulwark  and  wale — 
Red,  by  combing  and  hatch — 

Red,  o'er  netting  and  rail ! 

And  ever,  with  steady  con, 
The  ship  forged  slowly  by — 

And  ever  the  crew  fought  on, 

And  their  cheers  rang  loud  and  high. 

Grand  was  the  sight  to  see 

How  by  their  guns  they  stood, 
Right  in  front  of  our  dead 
Fighting  square  abreast — 
Each  brawny  arm  and  chest 
All  spotted  with  black  and  red, 
Chrism  of  fire  and  blood ! 
[  154  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

Worth  our  watch,  dull  and  sterile, 
Worth  all  the  weary  time — 

Worth  the  woe  and  the  peril, 
To  stand  in  that  strait  sublime! 

Fear  ?    A  forgotten  form  ! 

Death  ?     A  dream  of  the  eyes  ! 
We  were  atoms  in  God's  great  storm 

That  roared  through  the  angry  skies. 

One  only  doubt  was  ours, 

One  only  dread  we  knew — 
Could  the  day  that  dawned  so  well 
Go  down  for  the  Darker  Powers? 

Would  the  fleet  get  through? 

And  ever  the  shot  and  shell 
Came  with  the  howl  of  hell, 
The  splinter-clouds  rose  and  fell, 

And  the  long  line  of  corpses  grew — 

Would  the  fleet  win  through? 

They  are  men  that  never  will  fail 
(How  aforetime  they've  fought!) 
But  Murder  may  yet  prevail — 

They  may  sink  as  Craven  sank. 
Therewith  one  hard,  fierce  thought, 
Burning  on  heart  and  lip, 
Ran  like  fire  through  the  ship — 
Fight  her,  to  the  last  plank ! 
[  155  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

A  dimmer  Renown  might  strike 

If  Death  lay  square  alongside — 
But  the  Old  Flag  has  no  like, 

She  must  fight,  whatever  betide — 
When  the  war  is  a  tale  of  old, 
And  this  day's  story  is  told, 

They  shall  hear  how  the  Hartford  died ! 

But  as  we  ranged  ahead, 

And  the  leading  ships  worked  in, 
Losing  their  hope  to  win, 

The  enemy  turned  and  fled — 

And  one  seeks  a  shallow  reach, 
And  another,  winged  in  her  flight, 
Our  mate,  brave  Jouett,  brings  in — 
And  one,  all  torn  in  the  fight, 

Runs  for  a  wreck  on  the  beach, 

Where  her  flames  soon  fire  the  night. 

And  the  Ram,  when  well  up  the  Bay, 

And  we  looked  that  our  stems  should  meet, 
(He  had  us  fair  for  a  prey,) 
Shifting  his  helm  midway, 

Sheered  off  and  ran  for  the  fleet; 
There,  without  skulking  or  sham, 

He  fought  them,  gun  for  gun, 
And  ever  he  sought  to  ram, 

But  could  finish  never  a  one. 
[  156  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

From  the  first  of  the  iron  shower 
Till  we  sent  our  parting  shell, 

'Twas  just  one  savage  hour 

Of  the  roar  and  the  rage  of  hell. 

With  the  lessening  smoke  and  thunder, 
Our  glasses  around  we  aim — 

What  is  that  burning  yonder? 

Our  Philippi, — aground  and  in  flame ! 

Below,  'twas  still  all  a-roar, 

As  the  ships  went  by  the  shore, 

But  the  fire  of  the  fort  had  slacked, 
(So  fierce  their  volleys  had  been) — 
And  now,  with  a  mighty  din, 
The  whole  fleet  came  grandly  in, 

Though  sorely  battered  and  wracked. 

So,  up  the  Bay  we  ran, 

The  Flag  to  port  and  ahead, 

And  a  pitying  rain  began 

To  wash  the  lips  of  our  dead. 

A  league  from  the  Fort  we  lay, 

And  deemed  that  the  end  must  lag; 

When  lo !  looking  down  the  Bay, 
There  flaunted  the  Rebel  Rag — 

The  Ram  is  again  under  way, 
And  heading  dead  for  the  Flag! 
[  157  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

Steering  up  with  the  stream, 
Boldly  his  course  he  lay, 
Though  the  fleet  all  answered  his  fire, 
And,  as  he  still  drew  nigher, 
Ever  on  bow  and  beam 

Our  Monitors  pounded  away — 

How  the  Chickasaw  hammered  away! 

Quickly  breasting-  the  wave, 

Eager  the  prize  to  win, 
First  of  us  all  the  brave 

Monongahela  went  in 
Under  full  head  of  steam — 
Twice  she  struck  him  abeam, 
Till  her  stem  was  a  sorry  work, 

(She  might  have  run  on  a  crag!) 
The  Lackawanna  hit  fair, 
He  flung  her  aside  like  cork, 

And  still  he  held  for  the  Flag. 

High  in  the  mizzen  shroud 

(Lest  the  smoke  his  sight  o'erwhelm), 
Our  Admiral's  voice  rang  loud, 

"Hard-a-starboard  your  helm! 
Starboard!  and  run  him  down!" 

Starboard  it  was — and  so, 
Like  a  black  squall's  lifting  frown, 
Our  mighty  bow  bore  down 

On  the  iron  beak  of  the  Foe. 
[  158  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

We  stood  on  the  deck  together, 
Men  that  had  looked  on  death 

In  battle  and  stormy  weather- 
Yet  a  little  we  held  our  breath, 
When,  with  the  hush  of  death, 

The  great  ships  drew  together. 

Our  Captain  strode  to  the  bow, 

Drayton,  courtly  and  wise, 

Kindly  cynic,  and  wise, 
(You  hardly  had  known  him  now  — 

The  flame  of  fight  in  his  eyes !) 
His  brave  heart  eager  to  feel 
How  the  oak  would  tell  on  the  steel! 

But,  as  the  space  grew  short, 
A  little  he  seemed  to  shun  us, 
Out  peered  a  form  grim  and  lanky, 
And  a  voice  yelled:  " Hard-a-port ! 
Hard-a-port !— here's  the  damned  Yankee 
Coming  right  down  on  us!" 

He  sheered,  but  the  ships  ran  foul; 

With  a  gnarring  shudder  and  growl- 
He  gave  us  a  deadly  gun; 

But  as  he  passed  in  his  pride, 

(Rasping  right  alongside !) 
The  Old  Flag,  in  thunder  tones, 

Poured  in  her  port  broadside, 
[  159  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

Rattling  his  iron  hide, 

And  cracking  his  timber  bones ! 

Just  then,  at  speed  on  the  Foe, 

With  her  bow  all  weathered  and  brown, 

The  great  Lackawanna  came  down, 
Full  tilt,  for  another  blow; 
We  were  forging  ahead, 

She  reversed — but,  for  all  our  pains, 
Rammed  the  old  Hartford  instead, 

Just  for'ard  the  mizzen-chains ! 

Ah !  how  the  masts  did  buckle  and  bend, 

And  the  stout  hull  ring  and  reel, 
As  she  took  us  right  on  end ! 

(Vain  were  engine  and  wheel, 

She  was  under  full  steam) — 
With  the  roar  of  a  thunder-stroke 
Her  two  thousand  tons  of  oak 

Brought  up  on  us,  right  abeam ! 

A  wreck,  as  it  looked,  we  lay — 
(Rib  and  plankshear  gave  way 

To  the  stroke  of  that  giant  wedge !) 
Here,  after  all,  we  go — 
The  old  ship  is  gone ! — ah,  no, 

But  cut  to  the  water's  edge. 

Never  mind  then — at  him  again ! 
His  flurry  now  can't  last  long; 
[  160  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

He'll  never  again  see  land — 
Try  that  on  him,  Marchand ! 
On  him  again,  brave  Strong! 

Heading  square  at  the  hulk, 

Full  on  his  beam  we  bore; 
But  the  spine  of  the  huge  Sea-Hog 
Lay  on  the  tide  like  a  log, 

He  vomited  flame  no  more. 

By  this  he  had  found  it  hot — 
Half  the  fleet,  in  an  angry  ring, 
Closed  round  the  hideous  Thing, 

Hammering  with  solid  shot, 

And  bearing  down,  bow  on  bow — 
He  had  but  a  minute  to  choose; 

Life  or  renown? — which  now 
Will  the  Rebel  Admiral  lose? 

Cruel,  haughty,  and  cold, 

He  ever  was  strong  and  bold — 

Shall  he  shrink  from  a  wooden  stem? 
He  will  think  of  that  brave  band 
He  sank  in  the  Cumberland — 

Ay,  he  will  sink  like  them. 

Nothing  left  but  to  fight 
Boldly  his  last  sea-fight! 
[  161  ] 


THE  BAY-FIGHT 

Can  he  strike  ?    By  heaven,  'tis  true ! 
Down  comes  the  traitor  Blue, 
And  up  goes  the  captive  White ! 

Up  went  the  White !     Ah  then 
The  hurrahs  that,  once  and  agen, 
Rang  from  three  thousand  men 
All  flushed  and  savage  with  fight! 

Our  dead  lay  cold  and  stark, 
But  our  dying,  down  in  the  dark, 

Answered  as  best  they  might — 
Lifting  their  poor  lost  arms, 

And  cheering  for  God  and  Right ! 


[  162  ] 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 

Oct.  19,  General  Early  surprised  and  routed  the  Union  troops  during 

1864  General    Sheridan's    absence    in    Washington.     Sheridan 

hastened  to  the  front,  rallied  his  men,  and  won  a  complete 
victory. 

UP  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  "Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 
A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down; 
And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 
[  163  ] 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 
Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight, 
As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need; 
He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed; 
Hills  rose  and  fell;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 
With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth; 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind, 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  fire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  ire. 

But  lo !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops, 

[  164  ] 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE 

What  was  done?  what  to  do?  a  glance  told  him  both, 

Then  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  line,  mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there,  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust,  the  black  charger  was  gray 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play, 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 

"I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 

From  Winchester,  down  to  save  the  day!" 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 
The  American  soldiers'  Temple  of  Fame, 
There  with  the  glorious  general's  name 
Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright, 
"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day, 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester,  twenty  miles  away!" 


[  165 


CRAVEN 

HENRY  NEWBOLT 

August  5,  In  the  attack  on  Mobile  Bay  the  monitor  Tecumseh  was  sunk 

1864  by  a  torpedo. 

OVER  the  turret,  shut  in  his  iron-clad  tower, 
Craven  was  conning  his  ship  through  smoke  and 
flame; 
Gun  to  gun  he  had  battered  the  fort  for  an  hour, 
Now  was  the  time  for  a  charge  to  end  the  game. 

There  lay  the  narrowing  channel,  smooth  and  grim, 
A  hundred  deaths  beneath  it,  and  never  a  sign; 

There  lay  the  enemy's  ships,  and  sink  or  swim 
The  flag  was  flying,  and  he  was  head  of  the  line. 

The  fleet  behind  was  jamming;  the  monitor  hung 
Beating  the  stream;  the  roar  for  a  moment  hushed, 

Craven  spoke  to  the  pilot;  slow  she  swung; 

Again  he  spoke,  and  right  for  the  foe  she  rushed. 

Into  the  narrowing  channel,  between  the  shore 
And  the  sunk  torpedoes  lying  in  treacherous  rank; 

She  turned  but  a  yard  too  short;  a  muffled  roar, 

A  mountainous  wave,  and  she  rolled,  righted,  and  sank. 

[  166  ] 


CRAVEN 

Over  the  manhole,  up  in  the  iron-clad  tower, 
Pilot  and  Captain  met  as  they  turned  to  fly: 

The  hundredth  part  of  a  moment  seemed  an  hour, 
For  one  could  pass  to  be  saved,  and  one  must  die. 

They  stood  like  men  in  a  dream:  Craven  spoke, 

Spoke  as  he  lived  and  fought,  with  a  Captain's  pride, 

"After  you,  Pilot."     The  pilot  woke, 

Down  the  ladder  he  went,  and  Craven  died. 

All  men  praise  the  deed  and  the  manner,  but  we — 

We  set  it  apart  from  the  pride  that  stoops  to  the  proud, 

The  strength  that  is  supple  to  serve  the  strong  and  free, 
The  grace  of  the  empty  hands  and  promises  loud: 

Sidney  thirsting,  a  humbler  need  to  slake, 

Nelson  waiting  his  turn  for  the  surgeon's  hand, 

Lucas  crushed  with  chains  for  a  comrade's  sake, 
Outram  coveting  right  before  command: 

These  were  paladins,  these  were  Craven's  peers, 

These  with  him  shall  be  crowned  in  story  and  song, 

Crowned  with  the  glitter  of  steel  and  the  glimmer  of  tears, 
Princes  of  courtesy,  merciful,  proud,  and  strong. 


[  167] 


SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA 

SAMUEL  H.  M.  BYERS 

May  4?  After  Sherman  left  Tennessee  in  May,  to  the  talcing  of  Atlanta 

1364  September  2,  there  was  hardly  a  day  without  Us  battle; 

T\ec   o\  after  he  left  Atlanta  he  marched  to  the  sea  and  took  Sa- 

,  q~a  vannah ;  then  he  went  to  Columbia  and  the  backbone  of  the 

Rebellion  was  broken.     The  poet  wrote  this  while  a  prisoner 

at  Columbia;  and  when  Sherman  arrived  there  and  read 

it,  he  attached  Adjt.  Byers  to  his  staff. 

OUR  camp-fires  shone  bright  on  the  mountain 
That  frowned  on  the  river  below, 
As  we  stood  by  our  guns  in  the  morning, 
And  eagerly  watched  for  the  foe; 
When  a  rider  came  out  of  the  darkness 

That  hung  over  mountain  and  tree, 
And  shouted,  "Boys,  up  and  be  ready! 
For  Sherman  will  march  to  the  sea!" 

Then  cheer  upon  cheer  for  bold  Sherman 

Went  up  from  each  valley  and  glen, 
And  the  bugles  re-echoed  the  music 

That  came  from  the  lips  of  the  men; 
For  we  knew  that  the  stars  in  our  banner 

More  bright  in  their  splendor  would  be, 
And  that  blessings  from  Northland  would  greet  us, 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 
[  168] 


SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA 

Then  forward,  boys !  forward  to  battle ! 

We  marched  on  our  wearisome  way, 
We  stormed  the  wild  hills  of  Resaca — 

God  bless  those  who  fell  on  that  day ! 
Then  Kenesaw,  dark  in  its  glory, 

Frowned  down  on  the  flag  of  the  free; 
But  the  East  and  the  West  bore  our  standard 

And  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

Still  onward  we  pressed,  till  our  banners 

Swept  out  from  Atlanta's  grim  walls, 
And  the  blood  of  the  patriot  dampened 

The  soil  where  the  traitor-flag  falls; 
We  paused  not  to  weep  for  the  fallen, 

Who  slept  by  each  river  and  tree, 
Yet  we  twined  them  a  wreath  of  the  laurel, 

As  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

Oh,  proud  was  our  army  that  morning, 

That  stood  where  the  pine  darkly  towers, 
When  Sherman  said,  "Boys,  you  are  weary, 

But  to-day  fair  Savannah  is  ours!" 
Then  sang  we  the  song  of  our  chieftain, 

That  echoed  o'er  river  and  lea, 
And  the  stars  in  our  banner  shone  brighter 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 


[  169  ] 


O  CAPTAIN!  MY  CAPTAIN! 

WALT  WHITMAN 

April  15,  Abraham  Lincoln  was  killed  by  John  Wilkes  Booth,  almost 

1865  exactly  four  years  after  the  first  shot  was  fired  at  Fort 

Sumter. 

O  CAPTAIN !  my  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought 
is  won; 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring: 
But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead ! 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 

Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills; 

For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the  shores 

a-crowding; 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning; 
Here,  Captain  !  dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head; 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 
[  170  ] 


Copyright  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


0  Captain!     My  Captain! 


O  CAPTAIN!  MY  CAPTAIN! 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will: 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and 

done; 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won: 
Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


[  171  ] 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

April  15,  This  is  a  fragment  of  the  noble  Commemoration  Ode  delivered  at 

1365  Harvard  College  to  the  memory  of  those  of  its  students  who 

fell  in  the  war  which  kept  the  country  whole. 

SUCH  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 
Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote: 
For  him  her  Old  World  moulds  aside  she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 
Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 
Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead; 

[  172  ] 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 
Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors  blind, 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 
Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face. 

I  praise  him  not;  it  were  too  late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he: 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
[  173  ] 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 
Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 
But  at  last  silence  comes; 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 


[  H4  ] 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH 

1861-  The  women  of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  had  shown  themselves 

1865  impartial  in  the  offerings  made  to  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

They  strewed  flmoers  alike  on  the  graves  of  the  Confederate 

and  of  the  National  soldiers. 

BY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 
Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  on  the  ranks  of  the  dead; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat; 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 

In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet; 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue; 

Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 
[  175  ] 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours, 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers, 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done; 
[  176  ] 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 

Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever, 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue; 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


[  177  ] 


AT  THE  FARRAGUT  STATUE 

ROBERT  BRIDGES 

1801,  FarraguVs  statue  by  Saint  Gaudens  was  unveiled  in  New  York 

1870  in  1881- 

TO  live  a  hero,  then  to  stand 
In  bronze  serene  above  the  city's  throng; 
Hero  at  sea,  and  now  on  land 
Revered  by  thousands  as  they  rush  along; 

If  these  were  all  the  gifts  of  fame — 

To  be  a  shade  amid  alert  reality, 
And  win  a  statue  and  a  name — 

How  cold  and  cheerless  immortality! 

But  when  the  sun  shines  in  the  Square, 
And  multitudes  are  swarming  in  the  street, 

Children  are  always  gathered  there, 

Laughing  and  playing  round  the  hero's  feet. 


[  178  ] 


GRANT 

H.  C.  BUNNER 

1822,  This  was  written  on  the  day  of  Grant's  death,  July  23. 

1885 


S 


MILE  on,  thou  new-come  Spring — if  on  thy  breeze 
The  breath  of  a  great  man  go  wavering  up 
And  out  of  this  world's  knowledge,  it  is  well. 


Kindle  with  thy  green  flame  the  stricken  trees, 
And  fire  the  rose's  many-petaled  cup, 
Let  bough  and  branch  with  quickening  life-blood  swell- 
But  Death  shall  touch  his  spirit  with  a  life 
That  knows  not  years  or  seasons.     Oh,  how  small 
Thy  little  hour  of  bloom !    Thy  leaves  shall  fall, 
And  be  the  sport  of  winter  winds  at  strife; 
But  he  has  taken  on  eternity. 

Yea,  of  how  much  this  Death  doth  set  him  free! — 
Now  are  we  one  to  love  him,  once  again. 
The  tie  that  bound  him  to  our  bitterest  pain 
Draws  him  more  close  to  Love  and  Memory. 

O  Spring,  with  all  thy  sweetheart  frolics,  say, 
Hast  thou  remembrance  of  those  earlier  springs 

When  we  wept  answer  to  the  laughing  day, 

And  turned  aside  from  green  and  gracious  things? 

[  179  ] 


GRANT 

There  was  a  sound  of  weeping  over  all — 

Mothers  uncomforted,  for  their  sons  were  not; 
And  there  was  crueler  silence:  tears  grew  hot 

In  the  true  eyes  that  would  not  let  them  fall. 

Up  from  the  South  came  a  great  wave  of  sorrow 

That  drowned  our  hearthstones,   splashed   with  blood  our 
sills; 

To-day,  that  spared,  made  terrible  To-morrow 
With  thick  presentiment  of  coming  ills. 

Only  we  knew  the  Right — but  oh,  how  strong, 

How  pitiless,  how  insatiable  the  Wrong ! 

And  then  the  quivering  sword-hilt  found  a  hand 

That  knew  not  how  to  falter  or  grow  weak; 

And  we  looked  on,  from  end  to  end  the  land, 

And  felt  the  heart  spring  up,  and  rise  afresh 

The  blood  of  courage  to  the  whitened  cheek, 

And  fire  of  battle  thrill  the  numbing  flesh. 

Ay,  there  was  death,  and  pain,  and  dear  ones  missed, 

And  lips  forever  to  grow  pale  unkissed; 

But  lo,  the  man  was  here,  and  this  was  he; 

And  at  his  hands  Faith  gave  us  victory. 

Spring,  thy  poor  life,  that  mocks  his  body's  death, 
Is  but  a  candle's  flame,  a  flower's  breath. 
He  lives  in  days  that  suffering  made  dear 
Beyond  all  garnered  beauty  of  the  year. 
He  lives  in  all  of  us  that  shall  outlive 

[  180  ] 


\ijht  by  Charles  Scribncr's  Sons 


Grant 


GRANT 

The  sensuous  things  that  paltry  time  can  give. 
This  Spring  the  spirit  of  his  broken  age 

Across  the  threshold  of  its  anguish  stole — 
All  of  him  that  was  noble,  fearless,  sage, 

Lives  in  his  loved  nation's  strengthened  soul. 


[  181  ] 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SHERMAN 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 

1820,  Sherman  died  on  January  14.     His  funeral  took  place  two  days 

1891  later.     The  statue  by  Saint  Gaudens  was  unveiled  in  New 

York  in  1903. 

GLORY  and  honor  and  fame  and  everlasting  laudation 
For  our  captains  who  loved  not  war,  but  fought  for 
the  life  of  the  nation; 
Who  knew  that,  in  all  the  land,  one  slave  meant  strife,    not 

peace; 
Who  fought  for  freedom,  not  glory;  made  war  that  war  might 
cease. 

Glory  and  honor  and  fame;  the  beating  of  muffled  drums; 
The  wailing  funeral  dirge,  as  the  flag-wrapt  coffin  comes. 
Fame  and  honor  and  glory,  and  joy  for  a  noble  soul; 
For  a  full  and  splendid  life,  and  laurelled  rest  at  the  goal. 

Glory  and  honor  and  fame;  the  pomp  that  a  soldier  prizes; 
The  league-long  waving  line  as  the  marching  falls  and  rises; 
Rumbling  of  caissons  and  guns;  the  clatter  of  horses'  feet, 
And  a  million  awe-struck  faces  far  down  the  waiting  street. 

[  182  ] 


'; 


Copyright  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Sherman 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SHERMAN 

But  better  than  martial  woe,  and  the  pageant  of  civic  sorrow; 
Better  than  praise  of  to-day,  or  the  statue  we  build  to-morrow; 
Better  than  honor  and  glory,  and  History's  iron  pen, 
Was  the  thought  of  duty  done  and  the  love  of  his  fellow-men. 


[  183  ] 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE    GUNS 

JOHN  JEROME  ROONEY 

1898  The  high  quality  of  American  marksmanship  was  never  more 

conclusively  shown  than  in  the  battle  of  Santiago. 

A  CHEER  and  salute  for  the  Admiral,  and  here's  to  the 
Captain  bold, 
k  And  never  forget  the  Commodore's  debt  when  the 
deeds  of  might  are  told ! 
They  stand  to  the  deck  through  the  battle's  wreck  when  the 

great  shells  roar  and  screech — 
And  never  they  fear  when  the  foe  is  near  to  practise  what  they 

preach: 
But  off  with  your  hat  and  three  times  three  for  Columbia's 

true-blue  sons, 
The  men  below  who  batter  the  foe — the  men  behind  the  guns ! 

Oh,  light  and  merry  of  heart  are  they  when  they  swing  into 

port  once  more, 
When,  with  more  than  enough  of  the  "greenbacked  stuff," 

they  start  for  their  leave-o'-shore; 
And  you'd  think,  perhaps,  that  the  blue-bloused  chaps  who 

loll  along  the  street 
Are  a  tender  bit,  with  salt  on  it,  for  some  fierce  "mustache" 

to  eat — 

[  184  ] 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  GUNS 

Some  warrior  bold,  with  straps  of  gold,  who  dazzles  and  fairly 

stuns 
The  modest  worth  of  the  sailor  boys — the  lads  who  serve  the 

guns. 

But  say  not  a  word  till  the  shot  is  heard  that  tells  that  the 

fight  is  on, 
Till  the  long,  deep  roar  grows  more  and  more  from  the  ships 

of  "Yank"  and  "Don," 
Till  over  the  deep  the  tempests  sweep  of  fire  and  bursting  shell, 
And  the  very  air  is  a  mad  Despair  in  the  throes  of  a  living  hell; 
Then  down,  deep  down,  in  the  mighty  ship,  unseen  by  the 

midday  suns, 
You'll  find  the  chaps  who  are  giving  the  raps — the  men  behind 

the  guns ! 

Oh,  well  they  know  how  the  cyclones  blow  that  they  loose 

from  their  cloud  of  death, 
And  they  know  is  heard  the  thunder-word  their  fierce  ten- 

incher  saith ! 
The  steel  decks  rock  with  the  lightning  shock,  and  shake  with 

the  great  recoil, 
And  the  sea  grows  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead  and  reaches 

for  his  spoil — 
But  not  till  the  foe  has  gone  below  or  turns  his  prow  and  runs, 
Shall  the  voice  of  peace  bring  sweet  release  to  the  men  behind 

the  guns ! 


[  185  ] 


THE  REGULAR  ARMY  MAN 

1898  JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN 

HE  ain't  no  gold-laced  "Belvidere," 
To  sparkle  in  the  sun; 
He  don't  parade  with  gay  cockade, 
And  posies  in  his  gun; 
He  ain't  no  "pretty  soldier  boy," 

So  lovely,  spick  and  span, — 
He  wears  a  crust  of  tan  and  dust, 
The  Regular  Army  man; 
The  marching,  parching, 
Pipe-clay  starching, 
Regular  Army  man. 

He  ain't  at  home  in  Sunday-school, 

Nor  yet  a  social  tea, 
And  on  the  day  he  gets  his  pay 

He's  apt  to  spend  it  free; 
He  ain't  no  temperance  advocate, 

He  likes  to  fill  the  can, 
He's  kind  of  rough,  and,  maybe,  tough, 
The  Regular  Army  man; 
The  r'aring,  tearing, 
Sometimes  swearing, 
Regular  Army  man. 

[  186  ] 


The  Regular  Army  man 


THE  REGULAR  ARMY  MAN 

No  State'U  call  him  "noble  son," 

He  ain't  no  ladies'  pet, 
But,  let  a  row  start  anyhow, 

They'll  send  for  him,  you  bet! 
He  don't  cut  any  ice  at  all 

In  Fashion's  social  plan, — 
He  gets  the  job  to  face  a  mob, 

The  Regular  Army  man; 
The  milling,  drilling, 
Made  for  killing, 

Regular  Army  man. 

There  ain't  no  tears  shed  over  him 

When  he  goes  off  to  war, 
He  gets  no  speech  nor  prayerful  preach 

From  mayor  or  governor; 
He  packs  his  little  knapsack  up 

And  trots  off  in  the  van, 
To  start  the  fight  and  start  it  right, 

The  Regular  Army  man; 
The  rattling,  battling, 
Colt  or  Gatling, 

Regular  Army  man. 

He  makes  no  fuss  about  the  job, 
He  don't  talk  big  or  brave,— 

He  knows  he's  in  to  fight  and  win, 
Or  help  fill  up  a  grave; 

He  ain't  no  Mama's  darling,  but 
[  187  ] 


THE  REGULAR  ARMY  MAN 

He  does  the  best  he  can, 
And  he's  the  chap  that  wins  the  scrap, 
The  Regular  Army  man; 

The  dandy,  handy, 

Cool  and  sandy, 
Regular  Army  man. 


[  188  ] 


WHEN  THE  GREAT  GRAY  SHIPS 
COME  IN 

GUY  WETMORE  CARRYL 

* 
August  20,  A  week  after  the  signing  of  the  treaty  of  peace  with  Spain, 

1898  Sampson's  fleet  came  into  New  York  harbor. 

TO  eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er  mapless 
miles  of  sea, 
On  winds  and  tides  the  gospel  rides  that  the  further- 
most isles  are  free; 
And  the  furthermost  isles  make  answer,  harbor,  and  height, 

and  hill, 
Breaker  and  beach  cry,  each  to  each,  "'Tis  the  Mother  who 

calls!    Be  still !" 
Mother !  new-found,  beloved,  and  strong  to  hold  from  harm, 
Stretching  to  these  across  the  seas  the  shield  of  her  sovereign 

arm, 
Who  summoned  the  guns  of  her  sailor  sons,  who  bade  her  navies 

roam, 
Who  calls  again  to  the  leagues  of  main,  and  who  calls  them  this 
time  home! 

And  the  great  gray  ships  are  silent,  and  the  weary  watchers 

rest; 
The  black  cloud  dies  in  the  August  skies,  and  deep  in  the  golden 

west 

[  189] 


WHEN  THE  GREAT  GRAY  SHIPS  COME  IN 

Invisible  hands  are  limning  a  glory  of  crimson  bars, 
And  far  above  is  the  wonder  of  a  myriad  wakened  stars! 
Peace !    As  the  tidings  silence  the  strenuous  cannonade, 
Peace    at    last !    is    the    bugle-blast    the    length   of    the   long 

blockade; 
And  eyes  of  vigil  weary  are  lit  with  the  glad  release, 
From  ship  to  ship  and  from  lip  to  lip  it  is  " Peace!     Thank 

God  for  peace !" 

Ah,  in  the  sweet  hereafter  Columbia  still  shall  show 

The  sons  of  these  who  swept  the  seas  how  she  bade  them  rise 
and  go; 

How,  when  the  stirring  summons  smote  on  her  children's  ear, 

South  and  North  at  the  call  stood  forth,  and  the  whole  land 
answered  "  Here  ! " 

For  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  story  and  the  heart  of  the  sailor's 
song 

Are  all  of  those  who  meet  their  foes  as  right  should  meet  with 
wrong, 

Who  fight  their  guns  till  the  foeman  runs,  and  then,  on  the 
decks  they  trod, 

Brave  faces  raise,  and  give  the  praise  to  the  grace  of  their  coun- 
try's God ! 

Yes,  it  is  good  to  battle,  and  good  to  be  strong  and  free, 
To  carry  the  hearts  of  a  people  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  sea, 
To  see  the  day  steal  up  the  bay,  where  the  enemy  lies  in  wait, 
To  run  your  ship  to  the  harbor's  lip  and  sink  her  across  the 
strait: — 

[  190  ] 


WHEN  THE  GREAT  GRAY  SHIPS  COME  IN 

But  better  the  golden  evening  when  the  ships  round  heads  for 

home, 
And  the  long  gray  miles  slip  swiftly  past  in  a  swirl  of  seething 

foam, 
And  the  people  wait  at  the  haven's  gate  to  greet  the  men  who 

win ! 
Thank  God  for  peace !    Thank  God  for  peace,  when  the  great 

gray  ships  come  in ! 


[191  ] 


AD  FINEM  FIDELES 

GUY  WETMORE  CARRYL 

1898  This  was  written  just  after  the  end  of  the  war  with  Spain  for 

the  freeing  of  Cuba. 

FAR  out,  far  out  they  lie.    Like  stricken  women  weep- 
ing, 
Eternal  vigil  keeping  with  slow  and  silent  tread — 
Soft-shod  as  are  the  fairies,  the  winds  patrol  the  prairies, 
The  sentinels  of  God  about  the  pale  and  patient  dead ! 
Above  them,  as  they  slumber  in  graves  that  none  may  number, 
Dawns  grow  to  day,  days  dim  to  dusk,  and  dusks  in  darkness 
pass; 
Unheeded  springs  are  born,  unheeded  summers  brighten, 
And  winters  wait  to  whiten  the  wilderness  of  grass. 

Slow  stride  appointed  years  across  their  bivouac  places, 

With  stern,  devoted  faces  they  lie,  as  when  they  lay, 
In  long  battalions  dreaming,  till  dawn,  to  eastward  gleaming, 

Awoke  the  clarion  greeting  of  the  bugles  to  the  day. 
The  still  and  stealthy  speeding  of  the  pilgrim  days  unheeding, 

At  rest  upon  the  roadway  that  their  feet  unfaltering  trod, 
The  faithful  unto  death  abide,  with  trust  unshaken, 

The  morn  when  they  shall  waken  to  the  reveille  of  God. 

[  192  ] 


AD  FINEM  FIDELES 

The  faithful  unto  death !    Their  sleeping-places  over 

The  torn  and  trampled  clover  to  braver  beauty  blows; 
Of  all  their  grim  campaigning  no  sight  or  sound  remaining, 

The  memory  of  them  mutely  to  greater  glory  grows. 
Through  waning  ages  winding,  new  inspiration  finding, 

Their  creed  of  consecration  like  a  silver  ribbon  runs, 
Sole  relic  of  the  strife  that  woke  the  world  to  wonder 

With  riot  and  the  thunder  of  a  sundered  people's  guns. 

What  matters  now  the  cause?     As  little  children  resting, 

No  more  the  battle  breasting  to  the  rumble  of  the  drums, 
Enlinked  by  duty's  tether,  the  blue  and  gray  together, 

They  wait  the  great  hereafter  when  the  last  assembly  comes. 
Where'er  the  summons  found  them,  whate'er  the  tie  that  bound 
them, 

'Tis  this  alone  the  record  of  the  sleeping  army  saith: — 
They  knew  no  creed  but  this,  in  duty  not  to  falter, 

With  strength  that  naught  could  alter  to  be  faithful  unto 
death. 


[  193  ] 


GROVER  CLEVELAND 

JOEL  BENTON 

1837-  On  June  24,   1908,  Graver  Cleveland,  twice  President  of  the 

190g  United  States,  died  at  his  home  in  Princeton,  N.  J.,  at 

the  age  of  severity-one. 

BRING  cypress,  rosemary  and  rue 
For  him  who  kept  his  rudder  true; 
Who  held  to  right  the  people's  will, 
And  for  whose  foes  we  love  him  still. 

A  man  of  Plutarch's  marble  mould, 
Of  virtues  strong  and  manifold, 
Who  spurned  the  incense  of  the  hour, 
And  made  the  nation's  weal  his  dower. 

His  sturdy,  rugged  sense  of  right 
Put  selfish  purpose  out  of  sight; 
Slowly  he  thought,  but  long  and  well, 
With  temper  imperturbable. 

Bring  cypress,  rosemary  and  rue 
For  him  who  kept  his  rudder  true; 
Who  went  at  dawn  to  that  high  star 
Where  Washington  and  Lincoln  are. 
[  194  ] 


A  TOAST  TO  OUR  NATIVE  LAND 

Paris,  July  4,  ROBERT  BRIDGES 

1900 

HUGE  and  alert,  irascible  yet  strong, 
We  make  our  fitful  way  'mid  right  and  wrong. 
One  time  we  pour  out  millions  to  be  free, 
Then  rashly  sweep  an  empire  from  the  sea ! 
One  time  we  strike  the  shackles  from  the  slaves, 
And  then,  quiescent,  we  are  ruled  by  knaves. 
Often  we  rudely  break  restraining  bars, 
And  confidently  reach  out  toward  the  stars. 

Yet  under  all  there  flows  a  hidden  stream 

Sprung  from  the  Rock  of  Freedom,  the  great  dream 

Of  Washington  and  Franklin,  men  of  old 

Who  knew  that  freedom  is  not  bought  with  gold. 

This  is  the  Land  we  love,  our  heritage, 

Strange  mixture  of  the  gross  and  fine,  yet  sage 

And  full  of  promise — destined  to  be  great. 

Drink  to  Our  Native  Land!     God  Bless  the  State! 


[  195  ] 


FIFTY  YEARS 

JAMES  WELDON  JOHNSON 

1863—  On  the  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  the  Signing  of  the  Emancipa- 

1913  Hon  Proclamation. 

O  BROTHERS  mine,  to-day  we  stand 
Where  half  a  century  sweeps  our  ken, 
Since  God,  through  Lincoln's  ready  hand, 
Struck  off  our  bonds  and  made  us  men. 

Just  fifty  years — a  winter's  day — 

As  runs  the  history  of  a  race; 
Yet,  as  we  look  back  o'er  the  way, 

How  distant  seems  our  starting  place! 

Look  farther  back !    Three  centuries ! 

To  where  a  naked,  shivering  score, 
Snatched  from  their  haunts  across  the  seas, 

Stood,  wild-eyed,  on  Virginia's  shore. 

This  land  is  ours  by  right  of  birth, 

This  land  is  ours  by  right  of  toil; 
We  helped  to  turn  its  virgin  earth, 

Our  sweat  is  in  its  fruitful  soil. 
[  196  ] 


FIFTY  YEARS 

Where  once  the  tangled  forest  stood, — 

Where  flourished  once  rank  weed  and  thorn, — 

Behold  the  path-traced,  peaceful  wood, 
The  cotton  white,  the  yellow  corn. 

To  gain  these  fruits  that  have  been  earned, 
To  hold  these  fields  that  have  been  won, 

Our  arms  have  strained,  our  backs  have  burned, 
Bent  bare  beneath  a  ruthless  sun. 

That  Banner  which  is  now  the  type 

Of  victory  on  field  and  flood — 
Remember,  its  first  crimson  stripe 

Was  dyed  by  Attacks'  willing  blood. 

And  never  yet  has  come  the  cry — 

When  that  fair  flag  has  been  assailed — 

For  men  to  do,  for  men  to  die, 

That  we  have  faltered  or  have  failed. 

We've  helped  to  bear  it,  rent  and  torn, 

Through  many  a  hot-breath'd  battle  breeze; 

Held  in  our  hands,  it  has  been  borne 
And  planted  far  across  the  seas. 

And  never  yet, — O  haughty  Land, 
Let  us,  at  least,  for  this  be  praised — 

Has  one  black,  treason-guided  hand 
Ever  against  that  flag  been  raised. 
[  197  ] 


FIFTY  YEARS 

Then  should  we  speak  but  servile  words, 
Or  shall  we  hang  our  heads  in  shame? 

Stand  back  of  new-come  foreign  hordes, 
And  fear  our  heritage  to  claim? 

No !  stand  erect  and  without  fear, 

And  for  our  foes  let  this  suffice — 
We've  bought  a  rightful  sonship  here, 

And  we  have  more  than  paid  the  price. 

And  yet,  my  brothers,  well  I  know 
The  tethered  feet,  the  pinioned  wings, 

The  spirit  bowed  beneath  the  blow, 

The  heart  grown  faint  from  wounds  and  stings; 

The  staggering  force  of  brutish  might, 

That  strikes  and  leaves  us  stunned  and  dazed; 

The  long,  vain  waiting  through  the  night 
To  hear  some  voice  for  justice  raised. 

Full  well  I  know  the  hour  when  hope 
Sinks  dead,  and  'round  us  everywhere 

Hangs  stifling  darkness,  and  we  grope 
With  hands  uplifted  in  despair. 

Courage !     Look  out,  beyond,  and  see 

The  far  horizon's  beckoning  span ! 
Faith  in  your  God-known  destiny ! 

We  are  a  part  of  some  great  plan. 
[  198  ] 


FIFTY  YEARS 

Because  the  tongues  of  Garrison 
And  Phillips  now  are  cold  in  death, 

Think  you  their  work  can  be  undone? 
Or  quenched  the  fires  lit  by  their  breath? 

Think  you  that  John  Brown's  spirit  stops? 

That  Lovejoy  was  but  idly  slain? 
Or  do  you  think  those  precious  drops 

From  Lincoln's  heart  were  shed  in  vain? 

That  for  which  millions  prayed  and  sighed, 
That  for  which  tens  of  thousands  fought, 

For  which  so  many  freely  died, 
God  cannot  let  it  come  to  naught. 


[  109  ] 


THE  AMERICAN  VOLUNTEERS 

August,  1914  MARIE  VAN  VORST 

April,  1917  In  the  long  months  before  the  United  States  entered  the  war 

many  Americans  took  service  under  the  flag  of  France. 

NEUTRAL!  America,  you  cannot  give 
To  your  sons'  souls  neutrality.     Your  powers 
Are  sovereign,  Mother,  but  past  histories  live 
In  hearts  as  young  as  ours. 

We  who  are  free  disdain  oppression,  lust 
And  infamous  raid.     We  have  been  pioneers 

For  freedom  and  our  code  of  honor  must 
Dry  and  not  startle  tears. 

We've  read  of  Lafayette,  who  came  to  give 

His  youth,  with  his  companions  and  their  powers, 

To  help  the  Colonies — and  heroes  live 
In  hearts  as  young  as  ours ! 

Neutral!     We  who  go  forth  with  sword  and  lance, 
A  little  band  to  swell  the  battle's  flow, 

Go  willingly,  to  pay  again  to  France 
Some  of  the  debt  we  owe. 


[  200  ] 


I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH  .  .  . 

ALAN  SEEGER 

1914,  The  writer  of  this  was  a  member  of  the  French  Foreign  Legion. 

1916  He  was  killed  in  action  July  4,  1916. 

I  HAVE  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  some  disputed  barricade, 
,  When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling  shade 
And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air — 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 
And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 
And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath — 
It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 
When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 
And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 

God  knows  'twere  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  Love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
[  201  ] 


I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH 

Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear  .  .  . 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 


[  202  ] 


THE  CHOICE 

RUDYARD  KIPLING 

April,  (THE   AMERICAN   SPIRIT    SPEAKS) 

1917 

f  W  ^0  the  Judge  of  Right  and  Wrong 

m  With  Whom  fulfilment  lies 

**-        Our  purpose  and  our  power  belong, 
Our  faith  and  sacrifice. 

Let  Freedom's  Land  rejoice ! 

Our  ancient  bonds  are  riven; 
Once  more  to  us  the  eternal  choice 

Of  Good  or  111  is  given. 

Not  at  a  little  cost, 

Hardly  by  prayer  or  tears, 

Shall  we  recover  the  road  we  lost 
In  the  drugged  and  doubting  years. 

But,  after  the  fires  and  the  wrath, 
But,  after  searching  and  pain, 

His  Mercy  opens  us  a  path 
To  live  with  ourselves  again. 

In  the  Gates  of  Death  rejoice! 
We  see  and  hold  the  good — 
[  203  ] 


THE  CHOICE 

Bear  witness,  Earth,  we  have  made  our  choice 
With  Freedom's  brotherhood ! 

Then  praise  the  Lord  Most  High 

Whose  Strength  hath  saved  us  whole, 

Wlio  bade  us  choose  that  the  Flesh  should  die 
And  not  the  living  Soul! 

To  the  God  in  Man  displayed — 

Where  e'er  we  see  that  Birth, 
Be  love  and  understanding  paid 

As  never  yet  on  earth! 

To  the  Spirit  that  moves  in  Man, 

On  Whom  all  worlds  depend, 
Be  Glory  since  our  world  began 

And  service  to  the  end! 


[  204  ] 


ANNAPOLIS 

WALDRON  KINSOLVING  POST 

April,  1917  This  tribute  to  the  Naval  Academy  at  Annapolis  was  written 

November,  1918  while  the  American  squadron  of  destroyers  was  helping 

to  preserve  the  freedom  of  the  seas. 

THE  mother  sits  by  Severn  side, 
Where  Severn  joins  the  Bay, 
And  great  gray  ships  go  down  the  tide 
And  carry  her  sons  away. 

They  carry  them  far,  they  carry  them  wide, 
To  all  the  Seven  Seas, 

But  never  beyond  her  love  and  pride, 
And  ever  the  deathless  tales  abide 
They  learned  at  the  Mother's  knees. 

Stern  she  is,  as  well  becomes 
The  nurse  of  gentle  men, 

Who  trains  their  tread  to  roll  of  drums, 
Their  hands  to  sword  and  pen. 

Her  iron-blooded  arteries  hold 
No  soft  Corinthian  strain; 

The  Attic  soul  in  a  Spartan  mould, 

Loyal  and  hardy,  clean  and  bold, 
Shall  govern  the  roaring  main. 
[  205  ] 


ANNAPOLIS 

They  come  from  South,  they  come  from  North, 
They  come  from  East  and  West; 

And  who  can  say,  when  all  go  forth, 
That  any  of  these  are  best? 

With  names  unknown,  and  names  that  won 
Their  fame  in  a  hundred  fights, 

The  admiral's  son,  and  the  ploughman's  son, 

Mothered  by  her,  they  all  are  one, 
Her  race  of  sailor  knights. 

Young  and  eager  and  unafraid, 
As  neophytes  they  kneeled 

And  watched  their  arms,  and  only  prayed 
"Keep  stain  from  every  shield." 

Naught  else  they  fear  as  they  hunt  the  foes 
Through  fog,  and  storm,  and  mine, 

Keen  for  the  joy  of  the  battle  blows; 

But  God  make  strong  the  hearts  of  those 
Who  love,  and  are  left  behind. 


[  206  ] 


Copyright  by  Charles  Scribner's  Soyis 


Our  mother 


YANKS 

1917-  JAMES  W.  FOLEY 

1918 

O'LEARY,  from  Chicago,  and  a  first-class  fightin'  man, 
For  his  father  was  from  Kerry,  where  the  gentle  art 
began: 
Sergeant  Dennis  P.  O'Leary,  from  somewhere  on  Archie  Road, 
Dodgin'  shells  and  smellin'  powder  while  the  battle  ebbed  and 
flowed. 

And  the  captain  says:  "O'Leary,  from  your  fightin'  company 
Pick  a  dozen  fightin'  Yankees  and  come  skirmishin'  with  me; 
Pick  a  dozen  fightin'  devils,  and  I  know  it's  you  who  can." 
And  O'Leary,  he  saluted  like  a  first-class  fightin'  man. 

O'Leary's  eye  was  piercin'  and  O'Leary 's  voice  was  clear: 
"Dimitri  Georgoupoulos  ! "     And  Dimitri  answered  "Here!" 
Then  "Vladimir  Slaminsky !     Step  three  paces  to  the  front, 
For  we're  wantin'  you  to  join  us  in  a  little  Heinie  hunt!" 

"Garibaldi  Ravioli!"     Garibaldi  was  to  share; 
And  "Ole  Axel  Kettleson!"  and  "Thomas  Scalp-the-Bear ! " 
Who  was  Choctaw  by  inheritance,  bred  in  the  blood  and  bones, 
But  set  down  in  army  records  by  the  name  of  Thomas  Jones. 

"Van  Winkle  Schuyler  Stuyvesant!"     Van  Winkle  was  a  bud 
From  the  ancient  tree  of  Stuyvesant  and  had  it  in  his  blood; 

[  207  ] 


YANKS 

"Don  Miguel  de  Colombo!"     Don  Miguel's  next  of  kin 
Were  across  the  Rio  Grande  when  Don  Miguel  went  in. 

"Ulysses  Grant  O'Sheridan!"     Ulysses'  sire,  you  see, 

Had  been  at  Appomattox  near  the  famous  apple-tree; 

And    "Patrick   Michael   Casey!"     Patrick   Michael,   you   can 

tell, 
Was  a  fightin'  man  by  nature  with  three  fightin'  names  as  well. 

"Joe  Wheeler  Lee!"     And  Joseph  had  a  pair  of  fightin'  eyes; 

And  his  granddad  was  a  Johnny,  as  perhaps  you  might  sur- 
mise; 

Then  "Robert  Bruce  MacPherson!"  And  the  Yankee  squad 
was  done 

With  "Isaac  Abie  Cohen!"  once  a  lightweight  champion. 

Then  O'Leary  paced  'em  forward  and,  says  he:     "You  Yanks, 

faU  in!" 
And  he  marched  'em  to  the  captain.     "Let  the  skirmishin' 

begin." 
Says  he,  "The  Yanks  are  comin',  and  you  beat  'em  if  you 

can!" 
And  saluted  like  a  soldier  and  first-class  fightin'  man! 


[  208  ] 


ANY  WOMAN  TO  A  SOLDIER 

1917,  GRACE  ELLERY  CHANNING 

1918 

THE  day  you  march  away — let  the  sun  shine, 
Let  everything  be  blue  and  gold  and  fair, 
Triumph  of  trumpets  calling  through  bright  air, 
Flags  slanting,  flowers  flaunting — not  a  sign 
That  the  unbearable  is  now  to  bear, 
The  day  you  march  away. 

The  day  you  march  away — this  I  have  sworn, 

No  matter  what  comes  after,  that  shall  be 

Hid  secretly  between  my  soul  and  me 

As  women  hide  the  unborn — 

You  shall  see  brows  like  banners,  lips  that  frame 

Smiles,  for  the  pride  those  lips  have  in  your  name. 

You  shall  see  soldiers  in  my  eyes  that  day — 

That  day,  O  soldier,  when  you  march  away. 

The  day  you  march  away — cannot  I  guess? 
There  will  be  ranks  and  ranks,  all  leading  on 
To  one  white  face,  and  then — the  white  face  gone, 
And  nothing  left  but  a  gray  emptiness — 
Blurred  moving  masses,  faceless,  featureless — 
The  day  you  march  away. 
[  209  ] 


ANY  WOMAN  TO  A  SOLDIER 

You  cannot  march  away !     However  far, 
Farther  and  faster  still  I  shall  have  fled 
Before  you;  and  that  moment  when  you  land, 
Voiceless,  invisible,  close  at  your  hand 
My  heart  shall  smile,  hearing  the  steady  tread 
Of  your  faith-keeping  feet. 

First  at  the  trenches  I  shall  be  to  greet; 
There's  not  a  watch  I  shall  not  share  with  you; 
But  more — but  most — there  where  for  you  the  red, 
Drenched,  dreadful,  splendid,  sacrificial  field  lifts  up 
Inflexible  demand, 

I  will  be  there! 

My  hands  shall  hold  the  cup. 

My  hands  beneath  your  head 

Shall  bear  you — not  the  stretcher  bearer's — through 

All  anguish  of  the  dying  and  the  dead; 

With  all  your  wounds  I  shall  have  ached  and  bled, 

Waked,  thirsted,  starved,  been  fevered,  gasped  for  breath, 

Felt  the  death  dew; 

And  you  shall  live,  because  my  heart  has  said 

To  Death 

That  Death  itself  shall  have  no  part  in  you! 


[  210  ] 


TO  PEACE,   WITH  VICTORY 

November  11,  CORINNE  ROOSEVELT  ROBINSON 

1918 

I  COULD  not  welcome  you,  oh !  longed-for  peace, 
Unless  your  coming  had  been  heralded 
By  victory.     The  legions  who  have  bled 
Had  elsewise  died  in  vain  for  our  release. 

But  now  that  you  come  sternly,  let  me  kneel 
And  pay  my  tribute  to  the  myriad  dead, 
Who  counted  not  the  blood  that  they  have  shed 
Against  the  goal  their  valor  shall  reveal. 

Ah !  what  had  been  the  shame,  had  all  the  stars 
And  stripes  of  our  brave  flag  drooped  still  unfurled, 
When  the  fair  freedom  of  the  weary  world 
Hung  in  the  balance.     Welcome  then  the  scars ! 

Welcome  the  sacrifice!     With  lifted  head 
Our  nation  greets  dear  Peace  as  honor's  right; 
And  ye  the  Brave,  the  Fallen  in  the  fight, 
Had  ye  not  perished,  then  were  honor  dead ! 


[211  ] 


YOU  AND  YOU 

EDITH  WHARTON 

TO  THE  AMERICAN  PRIVATE  IN  THE  GREAT 
November,  WAR 


1918 


EVERY  one  of  you  won  the  war — 
You  and  you  and  you — 
Each  one  knowing  what  it  was  for, 
And  what  was  his  job  to  do. 

Every  one  of  you  won  the  war, 

Obedient,  unwearied,  unknown, 

Dung  in  the  trenches,  drift  on  the  shore, 

Dust  to  the  world's  end  blown; 

Every  one  of  you,  steady  and  true, 

You  and  you  and  you — 

Down  in  the  pit  or  up  in  the  blue, 

Whether  you  crawled  or  sailed  or  flew, 

Whether  your  closest  comrade  knew 

Or  you  bore  the  brunt  alone — 

All  of  you,  all  of  you,  name  after  name, 
Jones  and  Robinson,  Smith  and  Brown, 
You  from  the  piping  prairie  town, 
You  from  the  Fundy  fogs  that  came, 
[  212  ] 


YOU  AND  YOU 

You  from  the  city's  roaring  blocks, 
You  from  the  bleak  New  England  rocks 
With  the  shingled  roof  in  the  apple  boughs, 

You  from  the  brown  adobe  house 

You  from  the  Rockies,  you  from  the  Coast, 

You  from  the  burning  frontier-post 

And  you  from  the  Klondyke's  frozen  flanks, 

You  from  the  cedar-swamps,  you  from  the  pine, 

You  from  the  cotton  and  you  from  the  vine, 

You  from  the  rice  and  the  sugar-brakes, 

You  from  the  Rivers  and  you  from  the  Lakes, 

You  from  the  Creeks  and  you  from  the  Licks 

And  you  from  the  brown  bayou — 

You  and  you  and  you — 

You  from  the  pulpit,  you  from  the  mine, 

You  from  the  factories,  you  from  the  banks, 

Closer  and  closer,  ranks  on  ranks, 

Airplanes  and  cannon,  and  rifles  and  tanks, 

Smith  and  Robinson,  Brown  and  Jones, 

Ruddy  faces  or  bleaching  bones, 

After  the  turmoil  and  blood  and  pain 

Swinging  home  to  the  folks  again 

Or  sleeping  alone  in  the  fine  French  rain— 

Every  one  of  you  won  the  war. 

Every  one  of  you  won  the  war — 
You  and  you  and  you — 
Pressing  and  pouring  forth,  more  and  more, 
Toiling  and  straining  from  shore  to  shore 
[  213  ] 


YOU  AND  YOU 

To  reach  the  flaming  edge  of  the  dark 

Where  man  in  his  millions  went  up  iike  a  spark, 

You,  in  your  thousands  and  millions  coming, 

All  the  sea  ploughed  with  you,  all  the  air  humming, 

All  the  land  loud  with  you, 

All  our  hearts  proud  with  you, 

All  our  souls  bowed  with  the  awe  of  your  coming ! 

Where's  the  Arch  high  enough, 

Lads,  to  receive  you, 

Where's  the  eye  dry  enough, 

Dears,  to  perceive  you, 

When  at  last  and  at  last  in  your  glory  you  come, 

Tramping  home? 

Every  one  of  you  won  the  war, 

You  and  you  and  you — 

You  that  carry  an  unscathed  head, 

You  that  halt  with  a  broken  tread, 

And  oh,  most  of  all,  you  Dead,  you  Dead! 

Lift  up  the  Gates  for  these  that  are  last, 
That  are  last  in  the  great  Procession. 
Let  the  living  pour  in,  take  possession, 
Flood  back  to  the  city,  the  ranch,  the  farm, 
The  church  and  the  college  and  mill, 
Back  to  the  office,  the  store,  the  exchange, 
Back  to  the  wife  with  the  babe  on  her  arm, 

[  214  ] 


YOU  AND  YOU 

Back  to  the  mother  that  waits  on  the  sill, 
And  the  supper  that's  hot  on  the  range. 

And  now,  when  the  last  of  them  all  are  by, 

Be  the  Gates  lifted  up  on  high 

To  let  those  Others  in, 

Those  Others,  their  brothers,  that  softly  tread, 

That  come  so  thick,  yet  take  no  ground, 

That  are  so  many,  yet  make  no  sound, 

Our  Dead,  our  Dead,  our  Dead! 

O  silent  and  secretly-moving  throng, 

In  your  fifty  thousand  strong, 

Coming  at  dusk  when  the  wreaths  have  dropt, 

And  streets  are  empty,  and  music  stopt, 

Silently  coming  to  hearts  that  wait 

Dumb  in  the  door  and  dumb  at  the  gate, 

And  hear  your  step  and  fly  to  your  call— 

Every  one  of  you  won  the  war, 

But  you,  you  Dead,  most  of  all! 


[  215  ] 


WITH  THE  TIDE 

EDITH  WHARTON 

January  6,  This  was  written  on  the  day  after  Theodore  Roosevelt's  death. 

1919 

SOMEWHERE  I  read,  in  an  old  book  whose  name 
Is  gone  from  me,  I  read  that  when  the  days 
Of  a  man  are  counted,  and  his  business  done, 
There  comes  up  the  shore  at  evening,  with  the  tide, 
To  the  place  where  he  sits,  a  boat — 
And  in  the  boat,  from  the  place  where  he  sits,  he  sees, 
Dim  in  the  dusk,  dim  and  yet  so  familiar, 
The  faces  of  his  friends  long  dead;  and  knows 
They  come  for  him,  brought  in  upon  the  tide, 
To  take  him  where  men  go  at  set  of  day. 
Then  rising,  with  his  hands  in  theirs,  he  goes 
Between  them  his  last  steps,  that  are  the  first 
Of  the  new  life — and  with  the  ebb  they  pass, 
Their  shaken  sail  grown  small  upon  the  moon. 

Often  I  thought  of  this,  and  pictured  me 
How  many  a  man  who  lives  with  throngs  about  him, 
Yet  straining  through  the  twilight  for  that  boat 
Shall  scarce  make  out  one  figure  in  the  stern, 
And  that  so  faint  its  features  shall  perplex  him 
With  doubtful  memories — and  his  heart  hang  back. 

[  216  ] 


WITH  THE  TIDE 

But  others,  rising  as  they  see  the  sail 
Increase  upon  the  sunset,  hasten  down, 
Hands  out  and  eyes  elated;  for  they  see 
Head  over  head,  crowding  from  bow  to  stern, 
Repeopling  their  long  loneliness  with  smiles, 
The  faces  of  their  friends;  and  such  go  forth 
Content  upon  the  ebb  tide,  with  safe  hearts. 

But  never 

To  worker  summoned  when  his  day  was  done 

Did  mounting  tide  bring  in  such  freight  of  friends 

As  stole  to  you  up  the  white  wintry  shingle 

That  night  while  they  that  watched  you  thought  you  slept. 

Softly  they  came,  and  beached  the  boat,  and  gathered 

In  the  still  cove  under  the  icy  stars, 

Your  last-born,  and  the  dear  loves  of  your  heart, 

And  all  men  that  have  loved  right  more  than  ease, 

And  honor  above  honors;  all  who  gave 

Free-handed  of  their  best  for  other  men, 

And  thought  their  giving  taking:  they  who  knew 

Man's  natural  state  is  effort,  up  and  up — 

All  these  were  there,  so  great  a  company 

Perchance  you  marvelled,  wondering  what  great  ship 

Had  brought  that  throng  unnumbered  to  the  cove 

Where  the  boys  used  to  beach  their  light  canoe 

After  old  happy  picnics — 

But  these,  your  friends  and  children,  to  whose  hands 
Committed,  in  the  silent  night  you  rose 

[  217  ] 


WITH  THE  TIDE 

And  took  your  last  faint  steps — 

These  led  you  down,  O  great  American, 

Down  to  the  Winter  night  and  the  white  beach, 

And  there  you  saw  that  the  huge  hull  that  waited 

Was  not  as  are  the  boats  of  the  other  dead, 

Frail  craft  for  a  brief  passage;  no,  for  this 

Was  first  of  a  long  line  of  towering  transports, 

Storm-worn  and  ocean-weary  every  one, 

The  ships  you  launched,  the  ships  you  manned,  the  ships 

That  now,  returning  from  their  sacred  quest 

With  the  thrice-sacred  burden  of  their  dead, 

Lay  waiting  there  to  take  you  forth  with  them, 

Out  with  the  ebb  tide,  on  some  farther  quest. 


[  218  ] 


AMERICA'S  WELCOME  HOME 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

November  11,  When  the  fighting  ceased  there  were  two  million  American 

1918  soldiers  in  France. 

OH,  gallantly  they  fared  forth  in  khaki  and  in  blue, 
America's  crusading  host  of  warriors  bold  and  true; 
They  battled  for  the  rights  of  man  beside  our  brave 
Allies, 
And  now  they're  coming  home  to  us  with  glory  in  their  eyes. 

Oh,  it's  home  again,  and  home  again,  America  for  me ! 
Our  hearts  are  turning  home  again  and  there  we  long  to  be, 
In  our  beautiful  big  country  beyond  the  ocean  bars, 
Where  the  air  is  full  of  sunlight  and  the  flag  is  full  of  stars. 

Our  boys  have  seen  the  Old  World  as  none  have  seen  before. 
They  know  the  grisly  horror  of  the  German  gods  of  war: 
The  noble  faith  of  Britain  and  the  hero-heart  of  France, 
The  soul  of  Belgium's  fortitude  and  Italy's  romance. 

They  bore  our  country's  great  word  across  the  rolling  sea, 
"America  swears  brotherhood  with  all  the  just  and  free." 
They  wrote  that  word  victorious  on  fields  of  mortal  strife, 
And  many  a  valiant  lad  was  proud  to  seal  it  with  his  life. 

[  219  ] 


AMERICA'S  WELCOME  HOME 

Oh,  welcome  home  in  Heaven's  peace,  dear  spirits  of  the  dead ! 
And  welcome  home  ye  living  sons  America  hath  bred ! 
The  lords  of  war  are  beaten  down,  your  glorious  task  is  done; 
You  fought  to  make  the  whole  world  free,  and  the  victory  is 
won. 

Now  it's  home  again,  and  home  again,  our  hearts  are  turning 

west, 
Of  all  the  lands  beneath  the  sun  America  is  best. 
We're  going  home  to  our  own  folks,  beyond  the  ocean  bars, 
Where  the  air  is  full  of  sunlight  and  the  flag  is  full  of  stars. 


[  220  ] 


THE  UNKNOWN  SOLDIER 

ANGELA  MORGAN 

November  10,  This  poem  was  read  by  the  author  over  the  casket  of  the  Unknown 

j  g<21  Soldier,  at  the  special  memorial  exercises  held  in  the  ro- 

tunda of  the  Capitol  at  Washington. 

HE  is  known  to  the  sun-white  Majesties 
Who  stand  at  the  gates  of  dawn. 
He  is  known  to  the  cloud-borne  company 
Whose  souls  but  late  have  gone. 
Like  wind-flung  stars  through  lattice  bars 
They  throng  to  greet  their  own, 
With  voice  of  flame  they  sound  his  name 
Who  died  to  us  unknown. 

He  is  hailed  by  the  time-crowned  brotherhood, 

By  the  Dauntless  of  Marathon, 

By  Raymond,  Godfrey  and  Lion  Heart 

Whose  dreams  he  carried  on. 

His  name  they  call  through  the  heavenly  hall 

Unheard  by  earthly  ear, 

He  is  claimed  by  the  famed  in  Arcady 

Who  knew  no  title  here. 

Oh  faint  was  the  lamp  of  Sirius 
And  dim  was  the  Milky  Way. 
[  221  1 


THE  UNKNOWN  SOLDIER 

Oh  far  was  the  floor  of  Paradise 
From  the  soil  where  the  soldier  lay. 
Oh  chill  and  stark  was  the  crimson  dark 
Where  huddled  men  lay  deep; 
His  comrades  all  denied  his  call — 
Long  had  they  lain  in  sleep. 

Oh  strange  how  the  lamp  of  Sirius 

Drops  low  to  the  dazzled  eyes, 

Oh  strange  how  the  steel-red  battlefields 

Are  floors  of  Paradise. 

Oh  strange  how  the  ground  with  never  a  sound 

Swings  open,  tier  on  tier, 

And  standing  there  in  the  shining  air 

Are  the  friends  he  cherished  here. 

They  are  known  to  the  sun-shod  sentinels 

Who  circle  the  morning's  door, 

They  are  led  by  a  cloud-bright  company 

Through  paths  unseen  before. 

Like  blossoms  blown,  their  souls  have  flown 

Past  war  and  reeking  sod, 

In  the  book  unbound  their  names  are  found — 

They  are  known  in  the  courts  of  God! 


[  222  ] 


Copyright  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


The  unknoicn  soldier 


Thou,  too,  sail  on,  0  Ship  of  State! 
Sail  on,  0  Union,  strong  and  great  I 
Humanity,  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock 
'Tis  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock, 
'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears. 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee. 

HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 


THIS  BoOK  ISDt7E 

AN  INITIAL  pT^T 

DAY    AND     TO    sI°50C^TS0N   "^^^^ 
OVERDUE.     TO    *'.00    ON    THE    seIe^ URTH 


YD  27857 


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